


Fools Rush In

by sysrae



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Crimes & Criminals, Dean and Cas as neighbours, Debts, Destiel - Freeform, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Family, Fluff and Smut, Human Castiel, Human Crowley, Human Ruby, Humor, Humour, Love, M/M, Manpain, Mystery, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Romance, Sex in the Impala, Shower Sex, Slow Build, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Trauma, Triggers, Woobie, bookshop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:52:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 132,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1960965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>''I'm sorry,' he said. The words came out in a gulp. He stumbled backwards, knocking over a pile of books and for once not caring, stopping only when he hit his desk. 'I shouldn't – I shouldn't have done that.'</p><p>'The hell you shouldn't,' Dean panted, touching two fingers against his mouth. It wasn't until he stared at their tips, his expression almost wondering, that Cas realised he was looking for blood – that he must have actually bitten him. Lust, and embarrassment, burned in him like fire. He gripped the edge of the desk and levered himself behind it, falling into his chair before his legs could give out. Had he ever kissed anyone like that? Had anyone ever kissed him like that? And why, of all people, did Dean Winchester have to be the one to make him wonder?'</p><p>Fools Rush In is a Destiel AU, complete with loan shark Crowley, cults, FBI politicking, and All The Angst Forever. Plus and also: smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [AU where Dean owns a record shop and Cas owns a book shop right beside it](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/61638) by tumblr user mishaandpie. 



> Fools Rush In was written in its entirety between 11 July and 26 August 2014. As of 30 August 2014, the entire fic has been reuploaded after a line edit: I tweaked the language in places and fixed a couple of continuity errors, but otherwise, the story is unaltered. Hope you like it!

For the fifth time that morning, Castiel Novak jumped, startled out of _Paradise Lost_ by the sudden sound of AC/DC booming from next door. Irritated, he flicked the book shut, eyes raised beseechingly in the forlorn hope that some god or other might deign to solve the problem of Dean Winchester. The man was a menace – three months he'd been running the neighbouring record shop, and in all that time, there hadn't been a single day when he hadn't somehow managed to get on Cas's nerves. It wasn't just his taste in music, though that was questionable at the best of times, being tragically mired in the same decade responsible for hot pants and Happy Days; it was the _volume,_ and the stupid antique cowbell he'd attached to his door, and the roar of his equally stupid car, which looked like the improbable lovechild of a mako shark and a briefcase. He was inconsiderate, noisy and utterly incorrigible, but all that would still have been surmountable if not for the fact that he'd also leased the long-vacant flat above his shop, which meant that Cas, who lived in the flat above _his_ shop, had to deal with his proximity out of hours, too.

Gritting his teeth, Cas rose and stalked to his door, absently straightening a misaligned stack of books in passing. _His_ bell, which was small and bronze and appropriate to a secondhand bookshop, glingled cheerfully as he exited. Annoyingly, it was quieter on the street, a fact made all the more apparent when, two seconds later, he stormed into Impala Records – wincing, as he always did, at the wantonly ludicrous clatter of the cowbell – and found himself assailed by the full force of Thunderstruck's chorus. Unsurprisingly, there were no customers present: just Dean Winchester, who had been playing air guitar, but who stopped the moment Cas entered. Leaning back against the counter, he flashed a grin so punchable you could've boxed three rounds with it.

'Hey there, Cas! What can I do you for?'

It was so loud, he was barely audible. 'Turn it down!' said Cas.

Dean cupped a hand to his ear, the gesture deliberately exaggerated. 'What? I can't hear you!'

'I said, turn it down!'

'What?'

'TURN. IT –' Dean flipped a switch; the music stopped instantly, '– DOWN!' bellowed Cas, into the unexpected silence.

Dean grinned again. 'Hey, no need to shout.'

Cas glowered. 'Why do you delight in torturing me?'

'Torturing you?' He actually looked offended. 'With Thunderstruck? Are you kidding me?'

'It's not the song that's the issue.'

'Then what?' He threw out his arms. 'Come on, Cas, lighten up! Live a little! Stop being so, so –'

'Normal?'

'So quiet!'

Cas huffed. 'There's nothing wrong with quietude. I –'

' _Quietude?_ Oh, man. You really do need help.'

'I don't need _help_ ,' Cas snapped. 'I need _peace_.'

'To do what? Sell books?'

'For starters, yes. I also like to hear myself think. Though I'll understand,' he added, with all the withering scorn he could muster, 'if the concept is unfamiliar to you.'

Dean laughed, shaking a hand as though he'd singed his fingers. 'Ouch, Cas! That almost hurt! But seriously, man – what the hell is your problem?'

Cas was so taken aback, it shocked him into stepping forwards. ' _My_ problem?'

'You bet it's your problem!' Dean actually looked angry. 'Ever since I got here, you've been riding me like I'm some dumb hick who keeps crashing your poetry readings. I mean, I'm an easygoing guy, but you – you ain't happy without something to complain about, and I don't know why, but apparently, you've decided it's gotta be me. So lay off, all right?'

Cas couldn't believe what he was hearing. 'Listen, I don't know what your definition of easygoing is, but from where I'm sitting, you're pretty much the opposite.'

'Oh?' said Dean, raising an eyebrow. 'And what does that make me?'

'An inconsiderate jerk, mostly.' Cas started ticking things off on his fingers. 'You have a cowbell. You leave your bins every which way, and I have to straighten them up. You let your junk mail pile up on the back stairs, and I have to tidy that up, too. You play music all hours of the day and night –'

' _It's a music store!_ '

'– at a _volume_ ,' Cas continued over him, '– that should, frankly, be illegal, and while I appreciate that your ostensible purpose here is selling CDs, that doesn't excuse you singing classic rock in the shower every single morning! And singing it _badly_ , too!'

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it again. Cocked his head. 'You can hear me sing in the shower?'

'Believe me, I wish I couldn't.'

'Yeah, but – is that _all_ you can hear me doing?'

Cas coughed, discomfited by the sudden slyness of Dean's smile. 'My bedroom is on the other side of the wall. I, uh, there's a lot of sound – that is, the sound carries, and I can't – I mean, it's not like I want to listen, I just –'

Dean raised his hands, a placating gesture ruined by the accompanying smirk. 'Hey, hey, no judgement. Whatever gets you through your, uh, _quietude_.'

And he winked. He actually _winked_.

Cas didn't know where to look, or even what to say. The conversation had gone from being within his control to veering quite spectacularly off the rails, and now it was all he could do to take a deep, shaky breath and force himself to recover. 'Just, please – keep the music down, will you?'

'Sure,' said Dean, in a cheerful tone that suggested he had absolutely no intention of doing so.

Cas gave up, and turned to leave.

Just as he pulled on the door, the music started up again, loud as ever.

'THIS OK?' Dean yelled.

For a moment, Cas almost rose to the bait. But then the cowbell clanged, and he beat a retreat without answer, hurrying back to the relative safety of his own, Dean-free store.

 

*

 

Dean watched Cas leave, chuckling to himself. Man, it wasn't like the guy didn't have it coming, but still, he was such an easy target, it was hard to feel good about hitting a bullseye. Cas Novak was like something out of a sitcom, he was that uptight: for the love of god, what sort of man wore a damn tie and suit to work in a secondhand bookshop _he owned_? It wasn't like he was selling first edition Bibles in there or anything, either; so far as Dean could make out, most of his stock was the same sort of stuff you'd find anywhere else, only dustier and with fewer pictures. Also, no magazines, which was a shame, because at least then, Dean could've pretended to browse without boring himself unconscious.

Dean counted to twenty – more than enough time for Cas to get settled back in his batcave– then, with a sigh of extreme forbearance, turned the volume down. He could be a jerk sometimes, sure, but he wasn't a _complete_ jerk. And anyway, Cas had started it.

Hadn't he?

Dean stopped, caught off balance by the disconcerting realisation that maybe, just maybe, Cas had a point. He thought back to January, when he'd first taken over the store. He'd bought the whole thing entire – stock, fixtures and all – from the previous owner, who'd seemed like a decent enough guy, but who definitely hadn't mentioned anything about an overbearing, anally-retentive neighbour, even though he'd been honest enough to fess up to the presence of mould and a bunch of missing invoices. His first night there, arriving after a ten-hour drive but far too wired to sleep, Dean had tackled the mould, listed the paperwork in the Deal With It Later column, and promptly set about cleaning his flat, which had been untenanted for long enough that the dust showed insect tracks. And so, of course, the first thing he'd done was –

'Oh,' said Dean.

– vacuum. At four AM. While playing music. And, he suspected, singing. Even if Cas had banged on the wall – and no one else would have; they were the only two residential tenants left in their row of shops, the surrounding businesses all having long since expanded onto multiple floors – Dean likely wouldn't have heard. Instead, he'd cleaned until dawn, when the removal truck had arrived with his things.

' _Oh_ ,' he said again.

There were two ways into Dean's flat: one was through the shop, and the other was an external staircase accessible from the back alley. A _shared_ staircase, in point of fact, as it also lead to Cas's door – and now that he came to think about it, what with all the boxes and bits of furniture he'd been lugging up from the truck, and given how heavy they were and the fact that the cheapass removalists had taken one look at the stairs and decided they'd really rather not, it was entirely possible that Dean had, without actually meaning to, blocked Cas's front door for most of that first day. And, well, OK – sure, he'd made some noise moving in, but that was only fair, wasn't it? Moving was noisy business! And it wasn't like Cas had ever complained about the vacuuming or the door or any of it, but Dean wasn't psychic; and man, if Cas was too chicken to say something at the outset, then how was that his problem?

But as for the rest of it... Well, fair was fair: he'd cop to ignoring the bins and the junk mail, though he hadn't known they were an issue. How could he have done, when every time he remembered to check them, everything was all tidied away? How was he meant to know that Cas was the one doing everything?

'Aw, hell,' he said, smacking an angry palm on the counter, 'who else was it gonna be? The tooth fairy?'

Aggravated now, Dean ran a hand through his hair. He'd moved to Monument for a clean break, wanting to get away from everything and everyone in his old life, and while that was fine in theory, it also meant he'd landed himself in a strange city with no family and no acquaintances bar his landlady, and she was a retired accountant living three suburbs over. He'd known he had a neighbour, but he was new at this whole domestic thing, and the idea of just knocking on Cas's door and introducing himself as someone who maybe wanted a friend had seemed like only slightly less fun than shooting himself in the balls. So he'd gone into Cas's shop instead, thinking he'd try to strike up a professional repartee, but the last time Dean had been in a bookshop that didn't also sell porn, he'd been buying texts for school, and all he'd done was flail about awkwardly for something to say before making a crack about Cas being big into Dickens, because it was all he could think of.

And Cas had squinted up at him, in his bland blue tie and his cheap black suit that made him look like a tax inspector, and asked if he wouldn't mind turning his music down. And Dean, who felt the rebuke had come out of nowhere, had bristled, and refused, and made some more bad jokes, and the whole thing had gone south from there.

Even so, if Dean had known anyone else in town, he might've just let things lie. But the sad fact was, he didn't then and still didn't now, because for all his bravado, it turned out he was just as gunshy about striking up genuine conversations in bars as he was doorknocking neighbours, and as Cas-the-bookseller was someone he at least had a pretext for talking to, so Cas-the-bookseller had become his main source of amusement. Hell, he'd even taken to playing his music loud on purpose, just to goad Cas intro dropping by, because the only other conversations he had were with customers, and whatever their commercial virtues, he couldn't tease them, and they weren't a captive audience. _And isn't that sad_ , he sneered at himself, _that deep down, you're still a six-year-old pulling pigtails? Come on, Winchester. Admit it: you've been a complete dick to him, and now he hates you. Just give up._

But the idea that Cas might actually hate him left Dean feeling drymouthed and queasy, like he'd gone to drink from an empty glass he'd thought was full. Which was completely irrational: he hardly knew the guy, and from the little he did, Cas wasn't his type, not for friendship or anything else. He used words like  _quietude_ , and spent all day in a bookshop, and complained about AC/DC playing too loud, and why the hell should Dean give a shit what he thought? He was just some weird, obsessive little man in a bad suit, who squinted and sighed and clucked at him like a librarian who'd found a skin mag shelved with his Shakespeare, and if it wasn't for the slight hitch in his shoulders when he'd stormed out, Dean could almost have convinced himself that was all there was to Cas. But somehow, he knew better, and now that he did, he had to try and apologise.

Only thing was, he'd never been good at apologies. If he was, then chances were, he'd never have run to Monument in the first place. But that didn't mean he shouldn't try and get better.

Starting now.

 

*

 

Cas stood up, and promptly sat back down again. Even with the music reduced to a reasonable volume, he still felt at a loss for what to do. Had he been too harsh? Had he been a bad neighbour? Dean Winchester might be an inconsiderate jerk at times, but he was new to the area, and the first time he'd come in to introduce himself, Cas had ignored the man's obvious discomfort at the scenario in favour of offering criticism. That had hardly been charitable, and if everything Dean had done since then, or failed to do, was just a reaction to Cas's rudeness, then that was, if still not optimal, then at least understandable. But that didn't mean he should just roll over, either – he'd been within his rights to be upset, and there was a difference between trying to make amends and setting yourself up to be a doormat. And Cas, whatever else could be said of him, was emphatically  _not_ a doormat, though it sometimes felt like he'd spent the past decade trying – and failing – to prove it. 

His shop bell rang, and Cas was on his feet before he realised it wasn't a customer. Dean stood in the doorway, arms crossed awkwardly over his chest, and stared around the room like he'd never seen it before.

'Nice place,' he said, gaze skating over the sale table. 'I should, uh, come in more often.'

'You  _could_ do that,' said Cas, warily. 'Whether or not you  _should_ is a different question.'

Dean ducked his head, and Cas frowned, unable to fathom his sudden change in demeanour. Gone was the smirking confidence, replaced by a sort of self-conscious shuffling that was reminiscent of nothing so much as a bemused penguin.

'Did you want something?' Cas asked, pointedly.

Dean ran a finger over a copy of  _Pride and Prejudice_ . 'Yeah, as you mention it. What the hell kind of name is Cas? I mean, what's it short for? Caspar the Friendly Bookselling Ghost?'

'It's Castiel, actually.' He dropped his gaze, the old embarrassment ingrained to the point of reflex, and squared himself against the expected mockery. 'Go on.'

'Go on what?'

Cas blinked, confused by Dean's confusion. 'Laugh.'

'I'm not going to laugh at that.'

'Why the hell not?'

'Because.' Dean shrugged. 'It's better than Caspar.'

Cas just stared at him, inexplicably furious. 'What do you want, Dean?' He stalked forwards, prompting Dean to step back. 'Do you even know? Or are you just here to insult me some more?'

'What? No!' Dean inhaled and laughed, albeit shakily. 'Believe it or not, I actually wanted to apologise.'

'Apologise.'

'Yeah, you know.' He hugged himself with one arm, gesturing feebly with the other. 'For earlier. For the music and, you know, the other stuff.'

'And you thought the best way to do that would be... asking about my name?'

'It broke the ice, didn't it?'

Cas stepped closer, deriving some small measure of satisfaction from the sound of Dean's back bumping into a bookshelf. 'I'm not feeling very thawed.'

'Yeah, so I'm seeing.' He bit his lip, then grinned. 'You're kinda cute when you're angry. Anyone ever tell you that?'

Heat flashed through Cas, and not just his face. 'Shut up.'

'What? It's true!'

Goaded beyond endurance, Cas grabbed his shoulders and shoved him back against the shelf, hard. 'Shut  _up_ !'

'Make me!'

Cas kissed him, so fast he was barely even conscious of having done so. He felt Dean's shock, the indrawn breath that parted his lips and let Cas in, and braced for the inevitable revulsion, rage; for Dean to shove him away and flee.

But instead, Dean kissed him back: tentative at first, then passionately, one hand gripping Cas's hair, the other splaying across his side, pulling him close. It was more intimacy than he'd had in months – in almost a year, even – and Cas lost himself in it, anger completely forgotten, letting his hands slide down to Dean's hips as he melted into the kiss.

And then, abruptly, he came back to himself, and realised what he was doing. He pulled away, hating the feeling of letting go, of  _being_ let go, and stood there, breathing no less heavily than Dean, whose eyes – green eyes, and how had he only just noticed that? – were wide and glazed, his bottom lip swollen where Cas had shamelessly sucked it.

'I'm sorry,' he said. The words came out in a gulp. He stumbled backwards, knocking over a pile of books and for once not caring, stopping only when he hit his desk. 'I shouldn't – I shouldn't have done that.'

'The hell you shouldn't,' Dean panted, touching two fingers against his mouth. It wasn't until he stared at their tips, his expression almost wondering, that Cas realised he was looking for blood – that he must have actually bitten him. Lust, and embarrassment, burned in him like fire. He gripped the edge of the desk and levered himself behind it, falling into his chair before his legs could give out. Had he ever kissed anyone like that? Had anyone ever kissed  _him_ like that? And why, of all people, did Dean Winchester have to be the one to make him wonder?

'You should go,' he said, realising how bad that sounded even as he spoke.

'Seriously?' Dean straightened, leaning away from the shelf. 'That's what you're gonna say to me after – we're not even going to talk about this?'

'Not now,' said Cas, and some of his distress must have coloured his tone, because instantly, Dean went from affronted to resigned.

'Right,' he said. 'Sure.' He swiped a palm down his thigh – they'd been pressed close enough together that, to put it delicately, their mutual enthusiasm had been readily apparent – and half stepped, half stumbled towards the door. 'I'll, uh. I'll swing by later, maybe. After hours.'

Cas's mouth went dry. 'After hours,' he echoed, his imagination so enraptured with the possibilities, it took him a good four seconds to remember he was trying to avoid that sort of scenario. He licked his lips and said, 'No, wait –'

But Dean was already gone.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 Dean locked the shop door, hung the closed sign, went upstairs and poured himself a very large glass of bourbon. It sat in the tumbler, which sat on the table, at which Dean sat with his head in his hands, trying and failing to make sense of what had happened.

Cas had kissed him. Castiel Novak, bookseller, had kissed him. All by itself, that was headline news, but Dean had kissed him back, and damn if it hadn't been glorious. A little too much so, in fact; he was shaking, and when he tried to steady his palms on the tabletop, he found he was sweating, too. He took a swallow of bourbon, hoping the burn would settle him, but all it did was make things worse. He knew almost nothing about Cas apart from his name and occupation, and five minutes ago, if someone had asked Dean whether he wanted to sleep with him, he would've laughed in their face. But almost as he thought it, he realised that wasn't strictly true, either. As he replayed their earlier confrontations – not just the ones from today, but all of them, going back weeks – he was startled to realise just how many innuendos he'd made; how often he'd used sarcasm and barefaced cheek as covers for brazen flirting.

Which was, as he'd earlier scolded himself, textbook Dean Winchester: still pulling pigtails, teasing in lieu of honest affection. God, how deep under it was he? And when had it happened? And, more importantly, why? What was it about Cas that had him hooked?

He mulled the question, drink in hand. Sure, Cas was cute, but he dressed like he was going to a funeral, and on the few occasions Dean had ever seen him outside, he was always wearing the same beige trenchcoat, which was hardly come-get-me apparel. His hair was dark brown, short and vaguely tousled, but not remarkable in and of itself, though digging his fingers into it had been – well. He took another sip, closed his eyes, and conjured up a memory of Cas's face. A Greek nose, good cheekbones, a sharp jaw, clean-shaven, olive skin. All fine qualities, to be sure, but still, none of that was quite enough to explain the attraction, until you got to –

 _His eyes._ Dean opened his own and gulped. _It's all in his eyes._ They were blue, an impossible shade that somehow contrived to be bright and dark all at once, like the night sky lit by lightning, but it was their intensity that did it. Cas Novak carried worlds in his eyes, and even though it had taken Dean three months to consciously notice it, on some level, he'd been hypnotised from the outset.

Which was, quite demonstrably, a problem; and not just because of whatever personal issues had sent Cas scurrying behind his desk, either. The man was his neighbour – would doubtless remain so for the foreseeable future – and while Dean had been blithely content to jeopardise Cas's goodwill through a combination of sheer selfish ignorance and poorly subverted lust, the idea of making a calculated romantic overture towards him, with all the obvious pitfalls that entailed, was eight different kinds of stupid. Which wasn't to say it couldn't work, ever – it wasn't like the thirteenth commandment was Thou Shalt Not Bone Thy Neighbour – just that going to bed with him, now, like this, when they were virtually strangers but still close enough for things to become enduringly awkward, was an extremely bad idea.

Dean Winchester had a lifetime's worth of experience with bad ideas, precious little of which involved avoiding them. He touched his bottom lip again, remembering the bite and suck of Cas's mouth, and thought, _Shit_.

 

*

 

The rest of Cas's day passed in a blur of quiet denial. He tidied the books he'd spilled, then set about straightening the rest of his stock, or pretending to, until his body calmed down and, eventually, a customer came in, which helped restore some semblance of normalcy. He sold two paperbacks and an old compendium of obscure words before lunch, then flipped the sign and headed upstairs to heat himself a tin of soup, which he didn't really taste, but that was OK, because that particular brand had little to recommend it besides the price.

When he reopened a half hour later, the store was finally quiet enough that he managed to finish _Paradise Lost_ , absorbing it the same way he'd absorbed the soup: as a dull, nutritious whole that was neither memorable nor truly distinct from anything else he'd ingested that week. Which was no slight on Milton, or so he told himself; he'd just read it before, several times, and had opted to reread it more from some obscure sense of literary duty than any real enthusiasm. He sold a book on botany, a rubberbanded quartet of Mills & Boon romances and chocolate cake cookbook to a smiling older woman in tweed, then spent the rest of the time until 5pm in something of a fugue state, emerging to find he'd made a further two sales without having any conscious memory of what they were, or to whom, or when.

He locked the till, and the store, and closed the blinds, and did the half-dozen other things that constituted his closing routine, and headed upstairs like a man awaiting a stay of execution.

 

*

 

It was six thirty before Dean finally got up the courage to go and knock on Cas's door, and even then, he half expected the other man not to answer. God, he felt about as awkward as a high school junior picking up up a prom date, and when Cas finally did answer, still wearing his suit and tie, the illusion was so perfect, Dean laughed out loud before he could stop himself. Cas flinched, and instantly, Dean wanted to kick himself.

'Sorry,' he said. 'I just, uh – do you always wear that thing?'

'Mostly, yes,' said Cas, a slight blush creeping up his neck. He looked past Dean, then back again, the silence stretching awkwardly before he said, 'Do you want to come in?'

'Want is a strong word, but yeah. Thanks.'

Cas moved aside, and Dean stepped past him. He'd never seen the inside of Cas's flat before, and whatever he'd been expecting – bookshelves, mostly – the reality wasn't it. The walls were bare and the furnishings skeletal, not in deference to some minimalist aesthetic, but depressingly so. Dean had seen motel rooms with more character, and that was saying something.

'How long have you lived here?' he asked.

'Five years.' Cas pulled out one of the two chairs at his kitchen table, which looked like something he'd salvaged from the roadside. 'Here. Sit down.' He hesitated, clearly unsure of what to do next. 'Can I get you something to drink? I have, uh –' he squinted at his fridge, as though using x-ray vision to scan the contents, '– nothing, actually.'

'It's fine,' said Dean, who was already starting to wish he hadn't come. 'Just let's, you know. Talk.'

'Right.' Cas exhaled and sat, his shoulders hunched as he knotted his hands in his lap. He looked utterly miserable, an impression the state of his flat did nothing to help alleviate. 'What happened earlier, I... I apologise. I don't know why I did that. It was... it was unprofessional of me.'

'Unprofessional? We're not colleagues, Cas.' At which point, a truly horrific possibility occurred to him. 'Oh god, I'm not – that wasn't your first time, was it? With a guy, I mean?'

'What? No!' Cas jerked his head up, his forehead even more creased than usual. 'No, I mean, I know I'm gay. Well, bisexual, really –'

'Me too,' said Dean, before he could stop himself.

'– I just tend to prefer men, but still, that doesn't mean I'm in the habit of just, just shoving them up against a wall, and –' He stumbled to a halt, his face turning red. 'Well. You know.'

'Hey, it takes two to tango. I kissed you too, remember?'

'Yes,' said Cas, ducking his head. 'You did. And, um, it was... it was what it was. But it shouldn't have happened. I don't know you, and you don't know me, and I'm not very, well –' his voice cracked, '– stable.'

He gave a small, shaky laugh, and something in Dean twisted. It might have been the bourbon, but just at that moment, it didn't seem to matter. ' _You're_ not stable? In January, I burned my life to the ground and moved halfway across the country to run a record store. Before that, I was almost evicted for failing to rehome a bunch of ferrets I rescued from Craigslist. I am the poster-boy for unstable.'

That earned him a half-smile – which was, Dean realised suddenly, as close to happy as he'd ever seen Cas come, and given how clearly _un_ happy he was, together with the pathetic state of his home, the picture it painted was bleak. He sat back in his chair, considered, then made a decision.

'Look, Cas. Let's start over, OK? Let's pretend I haven't been a jerk to you for three months, and that you're the sort of person who likes to have fun, and let's go grab a drink at an actual bar like normal people. Whaddaya say?'

Cas looked stunned. 'I... just to be clear, this wouldn't be a, a –'

'Not a date,' Dean said, raising a hand. 'Scout's honour. My intentions are purely honourable.'

'All right.' Cas blinked at him, and then he really did smile. It transformed his face, and it was just as well he stood when he did, or else he'd have seen how transparently Dean's breath caught in his throat, and that would've ruined everything. 'Just let me get my coat.'

'Do you even own a change of clothes?' Dean called after him, not expecting – and not getting – an answer. In the silence, he inhaled deeply and stood, knuckles braced on the formica tabletop. _Don't fuck this up,_ he told himself. _Assuming you haven't already._

Moments later, Cas reappeared, draped in his ubiquitous beige trenchcoat. 'Do you know any good bars?' he asked.

Dean considered. 'Maybe not good ones, but I know bars. Let's find out.'

 

*

 

It had been so long since Cas had had fun, he almost didn't remember what it felt like. Dean had insisted on driving his briefcase-shark car – the Impala, it was called, the record store evidently having been named in its honour – and as Cas sat in the passenger seat, the engine rumbling beneath him, he felt the first faint stirrings of excitement. Part of him was still disconnected as ever, noting that Dean had seen more of Monument in three months than Cas had in six years. But when they pulled up in front of a bar called the Hot Rock, even that disparaging voice had fallen briefly silent, overwhelmed by the near-ecstatic novelty of going somewhere new.

The Hot Rock wasn't quite a dive, but that was the best you could say for it. In his suit and tie, Cas felt as conspicuous as if he were wrapped in neon, but Dean, with his beat-up leather jacket and casual nod to the bartender, seemed to fit right in. Cas let himself be shepherded over to a side booth, waiting patiently alone while Dean went off to buy them drinks. Predictably, he returned with beer, and though Cas couldn't remember when he'd last had one of those, either, it still tasted good. For the first time in he didn't know how long, he started to relax. Which was entirely thanks to Dean: aside from having dragged him out in the first place, he seemed to sense that Cas didn't want to talk too much, especially about himself, and so filled the silence with warm, inconsequential patter – what he thought of the city, his customers and his plans to fix up the shop, all interspersed with occasional speculation about the bar's other patrons.

'That guy over there, the one by the pool table? Man, look at him hitting on that chick. She doesn't give a shit, and he hasn't even noticed. I think she's even – yep, she is. She's beating him hollow. Oh, man! What a shot!' This with a note of genuine admiration. 'And look at him, poor dumbfuck. Doesn't have a prayer. Oh, he is so hustled.' He laughed, and Cas laughed with him, more at the commentary than the game itself, as he didn't know enough about pool to tell whose balls were whose, let alone who was winning.

_You would know stuff like that, if you were even remotely normal._

He flinched, as though he could somehow ward off his thoughts by making himself smaller. Dean frowned at him.

'Hey. You OK?'

'Yeah,' said Cas. 'Yeah, fine.' He needed to move, let the fear subside, and for that, he required a pretext. He grabbed his half-finished beer and downed the remainder, standing even before his mouth was empty. 'Going to get 'nother round,' he mumbled, and fled before Dean could question it.

Between his three layers of clothing and the lack of aircon, Cas was starting to feel hot, but if the trenchcoat was conspicuous, the suit would be even moreso. He forced himself to endure, and managed to stammer out an order for two more of the same beers Dean had bought. The bartender raised an eyebrow at that – or maybe just at him; it was hard to tell – but complied without question, and by the time Cas made it back to the table, he felt much calmer.

Dean, though, was still concerned. 'Thanks,' he said, accepting the beer, 'but are you sure you're all right? You went kind of pale just then.'

'I'm fine,' said Cas. But he wasn't, he _wasn't_ , and it was so much harder to pretend otherwise with Dean looking at him like that, when he wasn't at home, that without even meaning to, he found himself talking, the words spilling out in a beer-induced torrent.

'It's just, I don't get out a lot, really. Or ever. I mean, for years now, it's just been me, on my own, and sometimes I talked to Ron –' the record store's previous owner, '– but he didn't live there like you do, and I could just slip into myself, you know? Just _be_. But now you're here – you're right next door, all the time, and that's fine, you're not nearly as big of a jerk as I thought you were – you're being really nice, actually – but I can't just forget myself any more, and that's... I didn't think it would be this hard, and I don't think I'm coping very well. Which is maybe why I kissed you, and why I've been so angry about your music – about everything, really. And now I'm babbling, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' He took another long drink, almost choking in his haste, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Just forget it. Forget I said anything.'

'Yeah, that's not going to happen,' said Dean. He seemed to think for a moment, then took a breath and said, tentatively, 'Like you said earlier, I don't know anything about you. But if you don't mind a little friendly advice, it seems to me like maybe you've been on your own too long. And, you know, we're neighbours now, and I'm sorry if that makes things difficult for you or whatever, but this?' He waved a hand to indicate their surroundings. 'This is kind of nice. I mean, not the _bar_ , but us being here, you know?'

'Yeah,' said Cas. 'Yeah, I know.'

'Cool,' said Dean, and for a mercy, he changed the topic. 'Now, _that_ guy, on the other hand – him being here? Definitely not cool. I mean, a mullet _and_ stonewashed jeans? The seventies are dead, dude.'

Cas stared at him. 'Your car is practically from the seventies. And your music definitely is.'

'Yes,' said Dean, 'but unlike that guy's clothes, my car and my music are both enduringly awesome, whereas he looks like a poor man's Billy Ray Cyrus.'

'Who?'

'Trust me,' said Dean, 'you're better off not knowing.'

And somehow, Cas was able to laugh like maybe it was true.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Two beers became four, and four, accompanied by a basket of onion rings, rapidly became eight. Dean was cheerfully drunk, suffused by a feeling of wellbeing that was composed of equal parts alcohol and pleasure at having drawn Cas out of his shell. Sure, he'd been a bit maudlin early on, but somewhere around beer number five, his neighbour had finally ditched his coat and suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, removed his tie and actually started acting like a human, with surprising results. Not only did Cas have a sense of humour, he was also a talented mimic, and soon had Dean snorting with laughter at his impressions of various fictional characters, starting with Doc Brown and Marty McFly. It was like looking at an entirely different person: happiness lit Cas up like he was a Christmas tree, and the only trouble was, it made it harder and harder for Dean to not think about kissing him again.

Fortunately – or not, depending on how you looked at it – a new obstacle soon presented itself. Happy he might have been, but as the evening progressed, it became steadily more apparent that Cas had passed his limits. He started slurring, his gesticulations growing less graceful and more wild, and when he finally knocked over his not-quite-empty bottle, spilling a trickle of beer on his trenchcoat, Dean knew it was time to go.

'Come on, Cas,' he said, shrugging into his own jacket. 'Let's head out.'

'OK.' Cas grinned up at him, wide and trusting. He grabbed up his clothes on the third attempt and stumbled out of the booth. 'You driving? Because, Dean, m'sorry to say it, but you probably shouldn't.'

'Ah, I'll be fine,' said Dean. He knew full well it was a bad idea, but not wanting to leave the Impala in Brickside any more than he wanted to try and hail a cab while restraining Cas, he decided to risk it. Cas, at least, raised no further objections, letting himself be bundled into the passenger seat without complaint, his temple lolling against the window.

Dean babied the Impala home, driving with all the caution he ordinarily scorned, and somehow managed not to have an accident. Pulling up in front of the store, he made sure the car was properly locked – he tended to forget about doors when drunk – and almost fell when Cas crashed into him. The bookseller laughed, slinging a clumsy arm around his shoulders, and Dean felt his heart speed up.  _Don't even think about it,_ he told himself, sharply. Whatever Cas might say or do with eight beers in him, Dean wasn't so drunk as to think his current ebullience counted as informed consent.

As they rounded the corner into the alley, Cas briefly rested his head on Dean's shoulder.

'I needed this,' he mumbled. 'I... thank you. Thank you for this.'

Spoken beside his ear, the softly exhaled words shot a line of fire straight to Dean's core, igniting him. His breath hitched, every inch of skin made achingly aware of the weight and press of Cas's body, the scratch of his shirt against Dean's jacket, the tickle of his hair. It was dizzying; Dean stumbled, lurching just enough that Cas stopped using him as a pillow, and managed, 'Don't worry about it. I had a great time.'

They reached the stairs. Dean put one hand on the bannister, hauling himself up, the other braced around Cas's back in what he told himself was a purely helpful gesture, trying not to notice the play of skin beneath his neighbour's shirt, or how naked he seemed in the absence of coat and jacket. And where had those gotten to, anyway? He must've left them in the car, assuming he hadn't dropped them outside the Hot Rock without Dean noticing, but either way, it gave him a solid conversational gambit for tomorrow, and that was good.

On the landing outside their doors, Dean forced himself to let go of Cas, who blinked at him in the sodium light of their solitary street lamp.

'Well,' said Dean. 'I guess, uh. I guess this is goodnight.'

'Yeah,' said Cas, staring at him. 'I guess it is.'

There was a pregnant pause. Dean forced himself to break it, looking down and fumbling for his keys. After a moment, he became aware of Cas doing likewise, and shuffled over to his door, trying to get the key in the lock. There was a trick to it at the best of times: the lock was old, and you had to jimmy the key just so, or it'd stick halfway, which meant you had to pull out and start again. He hadn't tried it drunk before – or not this drunk, anyway – and after two failed attempts, he lost his patience, tried to force the key, and ended up dropping the whole ring.

'Great,' he muttered, crouching down. He groped across the landing, unable to see where they'd gone – until his hand hit skin, and he yelped in shock.

'Here,' said Cas. He was hunkered opposite, balanced on his heels, Dean's keyring dangling from his free hand. Their eyes met. Wordlessly, Dean stood, and Cas followed him in a single, fluid motion. Abruptly, they were too close, and when Cas proffered the keys, the hand Dean extended to take them shook. The keys dropped into his palm. Cas's fingertips ghosted his wrist, the contact lingering just a little too long to be accidental, and suddenly Dean didn't care any more. He dropped the keys, grabbed Cas's arm with his left hand and a fistful of shirt with his right, and whether he pulled or Cas pushed, it didn't seem to matter: his back came up hard against his front door, and Cas's mouth closed over his with all the force of a storm.

Cas pulled free of Dean's grip and cupped his face with both hands, his fingertips seeming to quiver against the skin of his neck. Dean gasped, his left hand curving around the small of Cas's back, tugging his shirt loose, questing desperately for bare flesh and, deliciously, finding it. His palm burned, exploring the change in texture between smooth skin and the thin, taut lines of what felt like old scars. His fingers traced them upwards, searching for their limits.

Cas broke the kiss. 'Don't,' he whispered. His hands slid to Dean's shoulders, trembling against his collarbone. 'Please, don't.'

'OK. It's OK.' Gently, Dean lowered his hand. The moment had broken; Cas stepped back, his eyes downcast, as indrawn as if their time at the bar had never happened. Dean struggled for something to say, and found nothing.

'Here,' said Cas. Like some awkward heron, he bobbed down and retrieved Dean's keys again, but this time, there was nothing coy in the way he handed them over.

'Thanks,' said Dean, because what the hell else could he say? He was breathing hard, and hard elsewhere, frozen in place as Cas pulled his own keys from his pocket and unlocked his flat, hurrying inside as if he were being chased.

The door clicked shut behind him.

'Shit,' said Dean, to the empty landing. ' _Shit!_ '

And then, because there was nothing else he could do, he turned back to his own door, turned the key on the fourth try, and stumbled in, angrily shedding his clothes en route to the bedroom like it was their fault he'd fucked things up with Cas,  _again_ . This time, there was no one and nothing to blame but himself: he'd known it was a bad idea, and he'd gone and done it anyway. 

And who could blame Cas for being self-conscious? Even fogged by beer and lust, it was clear to Dean that those scars were far from minor: they'd crossed his whole back, a stippled pattern that seemed to go on forever. What the hell left scars like that? Nothing you'd want to discuss over coffee, that was for damn sure. God, no wonder the guy was edgy about getting intimate: you couldn't hide something like that in bed, and any explanation was more or less guaranteed to kill the mood.

Groaning, Dean collapsed onto bed.  _Nice one, Winchester. Real good job. Try solving this with beer, or maybe –_

He fell asleep before he could finish the thought.

 

*

 

For the first time in nearly five months, Cas had the dream.

He was back in the compound in Nevada, sweltering in the bare, cramped hut that Brother Tiberius called the Confessional. It was over a hundred degrees outside, and between the tin roof and the bare stone floor, Cas was baking alive. He lay on the ground, his face jammed as close to the crack at the base of the door as he could get it, hoping for a breath of breeze but tasting only dust. He'd been there for hours, and his throat was on fire. Feebly, he raised one fist and banged it against the door.

'Please! I repent! I'm sorry!'

No answer. He screwed his eyes shut, thin tears ridding his body of yet more precious moisture. He was going to die in here, and his mother was going to let him, and it was all his fault – Footsteps. Heavy boots on dusty gravel. The sound of the padlock opening, followed by the heavy clink of chain being pulled through the catch. The door swung open, and Cas cringed in the sudden sunlight, wrists in front of his eyes.

'I'm sorry,' he croaked again.

'Get up. I said get up, boy!'

Thick, calloused fingers grabbed his collar. Somehow, Cas came to his feet in time to keep from choking, and found himself staring into the hard, weatherbeaten face of Brother Tiberius.

'Heat dunt seem to work on you like it oughta, does it, boy?' The Brother grinned, his teeth almost blindingly white. 'What is this, the fifth time you've transgressed the Word of the Faithful?'

Cas was so thirsty, he could barely get the words out, but you didn't make Brother Tiberius ask twice. 'The sixth, brother. I'm sorry. I'm a –' he coughed, licking his bleeding lips '– a cracked vessel.'

The Brother nodded. 'That you are, Castiel. To your mother's shame, that you most surely are. Which is why,' he said, hauling Cas out of the Confessional and into the blistering desert heat, 'the Angels have inspired me to devise a different punishment for you. A sharper lesson, shall we say.'

'No,' said Cas, his foreknowledge of what was coming twisting the memory out of true. He struggled to free himself from Brother Tiberius, but the dream was inexorable, gripping down on his collar like the jaws of a hungry dog. It shook him, as the Brother had once shaken him, and when the world stopped spinning, he was bent over on his hands and knees, unrestrained, yet utterly unable to rise, because where was there to run that wouldn't hurt?

The belt, with its biting buckle, came down, and Castiel started screaming.

 

*

 

Dean woke suddenly, startling bolt upright in bed. Something had woken him, but he didn't know what.

'–the hell?' he mumbled sleepily, and was on the brink of lying back down when he heard it again: a throaty cry that was somewhere between a sob and a shout. It sounded almost animal, and for a moment, he thought wildly that some rat or raccoon had managed to get inside the walls, and was dying there, impaled on a bit of rebar. Then he came fully awake, and recognised the noise for what it really was: Cas, distressed.

His stomach twisted, and not just in anticipation of the morning's hangover. What the hell was the etiquette, here? Most likely, Cas had just drunk too much, and was suffering the consequences. If Dean went over to check on him, then all it achieved was even more embarrassment and, quite possibly, a glimpse of projectile vomiting. But in the three months since Dean had moved in, he'd never heard so much as a peep from Cas's side of the wall, and even if he was just spewing his guts up, it was Dean who'd gotten him drunk, which made him responsible for what happened next. And besides which – Cas cried out again, louder this time – that didn't sound like the sort of noise you made when things were all OK.

'Fuck,' said Dean, and lurched out of bed. He'd fallen asleep in a tee and boxers, which was practically fully dressed, and so didn't bother with anything else. Swearing, he tripped over his boots, and realised he'd left the front door wide open.

Out on the landing, the air was chill. It was well past midnight, but nowhere near dawn: a witching hour of silence and cold stars, broken only by the eerie sounds coming from Cas's place. Hugging himself, Dean knocked on the door.

'Cas? You OK in there?'

No answer.

'Shit.' He stared at the handle, almost daring himself to try it. If it was locked, there was nothing more he could do. Case closed.

He reached out, and the door swung open.

' _Shit_ .' He hovered on the threshold, hating himself for hesitating, and hating Cas for having put him in this position. God, couldn't the guy drink a few damn beers without having a personal crisis? 

More shouting, and this time, there was no question: it was coming from Cas, and Cas was in trouble. Shutting the door, Dean fumbled his way through the darkened flat to the room he'd earlier deemed most likely to be the bedroom – after all, if his bathroom was on the other side, there was really only one place it could be.

The door was ajar, a thin bar of moonlight slicing across the floor.

'Cas?' Dean called, entering.

The room was awash with shadows, blue on grey on black, but somehow, the silver light streaming through the window still showed every line on Cas's face. He was tangled in his sheets, his whole body rigid; muscles stood out on his neck and arms as though he were straining against invisible ropes, and his mouth was twisted with pain. As Dean watched, he convulsed, turning his head onside, and let out another moaning cry, fists knotted helplessly in his sheets. And then, awfully, he spoke, the single word thick and clotted with sleep: ' _Please_ .' 

'Oh, fuck,' Dean whispered. Cas was having night terrors: he'd seen it before, in his capacity as a former soldier and an ex-cop both, and it was never pretty.

Biting his lip, he came and knelt by the bedside, palms braced on the mattress.

'Cas, you're dreaming. It's OK. Wake up. Wake up, Cas.' And he reached out and touched the back of his hand.

The effect was electric: Cas reared up like a harpooned whale, gasping and sobbing.

'I'm sorry!' he choked, but he wasn't speaking to Dean; he was still half under it, shivering and sweaty.

'Cas. Cas.' Dean reached for him again, gently touching his arm. Cas jerked and stared at him, blinking in the darkness. There were tears on his cheeks; he looked utterly undone.

'Dean?' he whispered.

'Yeah, it's me. It's OK.' And then, more hesitantly, 'You had a nightmare.'

'I know. I was here.' He almost laughed, frantically knuckling at his tears. 'Why are you?'

He tried to sound casual, and failed spectacularly. 'Oh, you know. Just passing through.'

'What?'

'You woke me up,' he admitted.

'You – I  _what_ ?' Cas looked genuinely frightened. 'What was I doing? What happened?' His voice cracked. 'Did I hurt you?'

The realisation just about dropped Dean's heart through his stomach.  _He doesn't know. He doesn't know he gets like this, because no one's ever been here when it happens._ 'I'm fine,' he made himself say. 'You didn't do anything, Cas. I just heard you, that's all, same way you hear me sing in the shower.'

'Oh.' He gulped, hugging his chest. 'Sorry.'

'Don't be. Hey, none of that.' And before he knew quite what he was doing, he was perching on the edge of the bed, gingerly looping an arm around Cas's bare shoulders. For a moment, he thought the other man would shrug him off, and was braced to withdraw, but then Cas leaned into him, shivering with a mix of grief and cold.

A knot of anger formed in Dean's chest. He didn't know who or when, and he didn't care why, but once upon a time, someone had hurt Castiel very badly, and if he could have wished them dead on the spot, he would've. Instead, he curled his fingers protectively around Cas's shoulder and said, 'I can stay, if you want. For the company.'

Cas shivered again. 'Please,' he said.

Dean lay down first, untangling the sheets. Cas followed slowly, his face turned to the wall. That would've felt like a rejection, except that it laid bare the full extent of what he'd earlier tried to hide. Unable to help himself, Dean swore.

Cas's entire back was a mess of scars, layers on layers of them. A few stood out from the others, and these, he recognised now, were the ones he'd felt outside – they were longer, thicker and straighter than the rest, which made them distinctive – but beneath and around them were dozens of others, a patchwork of crisscrossing marks that had to date back at least a decade. Reflexively, Dean reached out to touch them, but stopped himself at the last moment, his hand hovering over Cas's spine.

Something clicked into place. 'Is this what you were dreaming about?'

'Yes,' said Cas. 'Among other things.'

'Son of a bitch.' Dean moved his hand, resting it tentatively on Cas's hip. When this elicited no protest, he edged closer, wanting – needing – to do something to show it was OK, to compensate the fact that, however unintentionally, he'd been the one to trigger the nightmare.

Slowly, he leaned in, and kissed Cas between his shoulderblades, right at the base of his neck.

Cas made a strangled sound; Dean pulled back, concerned.

'Was that OK?'

'Yes,' Cas whispered.

'Well, good, then.' Satisfied, Dean lifted his hand from Cas's hip and stretched it across his chest, curling up against his back. The threat had passed, which meant he could relax, and he was still a bit drunk, and more than a little tired. His eyes closed of their own accord, and within moments, he was asleep again.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Cas woke slowly, baffled and nauseated, to the sound of someone snoring. Not quite wanting to believe it, he looked left, and flinched. Dean Winchester lay beside him, one arm crooked above his head, the other crossed over his stomach.

_Oh god. What happened last night?_

He remembered going to the bar, and having a good time. He remembered being hot, and taking off layers. He remembered, vaguely, the drive home: the orange strobe of passing lights, cool glass against his forehead, the gentle burr of music. But beyond the car, there were only flashes: lurching upstairs, sore lips, a feeling of shame, and after that, nothing. 

Trying not to panic, Cas peeked under the sheet, and groaned with relief to see they both still had their boxers on. Dean was wearing a t-shirt, too – the same one he'd had at the bar? – and though Cas felt decidedly hungover, he didn't feel any worse than that: just drained, and blank, and embarrassed that he didn't remember how and why Dean was next to him.

Turning his head, he studied his neighbour, hoping the sight might jog his memory. Cas didn't know how old Dean was, though he'd always assumed they were both in their late twenties, but sleeping, he looked younger than that. His face seemed softer, its lines relaxed, his mouth missing its usual sardonic quirk, and for the first time, it occurred to Cas that Dean was not so much handsome as he was beautiful. It wasn't any one feature that tipped the balance, but the way they all worked together: straight-bladed nose, high cheeks, suntanned skin, a neat jaw curving smoothly into a rugged chin, and a mouth whose lips were neither thin nor full, but achingly kissable.

And with that observation, part of the previous night came flooding back: Cas pressing Dean up against the door, the dizzying taste and feel of him, and then the sharp flare of self-consciousness as those clever hands found his back. He remembered fleeing inside, but alone; he was  _sure_ he'd been alone. So where had Dean come from? What was he forgetting? 

Uneasy now, Cas sat up, edged his way down the bed and hopped off the end, leaving Dean to sleep. Mindful of the squeaky floor, he padded across to the bathroom, locking himself in. His mouth felt furry, and he'd definitely drunk too much, but though he poked and prodded himself, looking for physical clues to the night's adventures, he found none, and concluded that he was, for lack of a better word, undamaged. And yet, he still felt worried: the fact that nothing had happened  _to_ him didn't mean that nothing had happened  _at all_ , and without knowing what it was, he couldn't quite rest easy.

Ruthlessly, he shoved the thought aside. Worrying would do no good, and in the mean time, he had a store to open. Cracking his shoulders, he hopped in the shower, half hoping that, by the time he'd finished, Dean would be gone. Unfortunately, he had no such luck: he was just turning off the taps when someone banged on the bathroom door.

'Cas? You OK in there?'

'Yeah,' he called. 'I'm fine. You?'

'Completely.' A pause. 'You going to be long? I, uh, need to use the facilities.'

Cas shut his eyes. It was cowardly, but he needed more time. 'What's wrong with the ones at your place?'

Silence. Then: 'Oh. OK, yeah. Sure. Whatever.' There was an audible breath, like Dean was steeling himself to say something, but either he changed his mind or Cas had been imagining things, because all that followed were footsteps. He stood in the shower stall, every muscle tense until he heard the telltale thump of the front door closing.

Then he sighed, and grabbed a towel, and set about getting dressed.

It didn't take long to realise that, apart from stinking of sweat and beer, his suit pants were missing their jacket; his coat and tie were gone, too, but all that was a problem for later. Cas felt naked without his suit, especially on weekdays: it was like armour, a symbol of his long-sought normalcy. Forced to raid his closet instead, he fell back on a pair of navy slacks, a clean white shirt, a pale blue tie and, after a moment's thought, a pinstripe navy waistcoat with silver buttons. He'd found it in a thrift store years ago, but seldom worn it; though when he caught a glimpse of his reflection while putting his dirty things in the wash, he was willing to concede that might have been a mistake. Indulging in a rare moment of vanity, he slicked his wet hair back with the comb and allowed himself a small, hopeful smile. Whatever had happened with Dean, he was still himself: he looked good; he felt, if not exuberant, then at least functional; and Nevada was a long, long way away.

 

*

 

In deference to his growling stomach and empty fridge, Dean went out for breakfast, grabbing three bear claws and a cup of sweet, black coffee from the bakery-café opposite. He'd only been there a handful of times before, but to his surprise, the barista remembered him, smiling as she asked how the store was doing.

'Good, yeah. Really good,' said Dean, reflexively. 'You should come by, check it out sometime.'

'Sure!' said the barista, grinning. She was pert and pretty, her kinky hair dyed a vivid red that stood out against her warm brown skin. 'I might just do that.'

'I hope you do,' said Dean, and smiled right back at her, but it was reflex-flirting; his mind was full of Cas, and worry at what his polite eviction meant.

Crossing back to his side of the street, he headed to the Impala, where, sure enough, he found Cas's things in the passenger-side footwell. Putting his breakfast on the roof, he gathered up the coat, tie and jacket, and was just in the process of figuring out how to carry everything at once when, from the corner of one eye, he saw the blinds go up in Books of a Feather.

'Right,' he said, as much to stop himself panicking as anything else. 'Right. OK.'

Throwing the clothes over one arm, he picked up the coffee and pastries, walked to Cas's door and gave it a vigorous kick. Through the glass, he saw Cas startle, knocking a row of books off the edge of a table. Unable to help himself, Dean laughed, earning himself a disapproving frown as Cas unlocked the door.

'Morning!' he said, barging in before Cas could think twice about it. 'Well, morning again, anyway.'

Behind him, he heard the bookseller huff. 'Was that strictly necessary?'

'My hands were full.' Stepping over the toppled books, Dean set his breakfast down on the desk, then turned to proffer the coats. 'I brought your stuff. You left it in the car.'

Cas ignored him, bending down to pick up the books. Dean rolled his eyes, reaching into the pastry bag for a bear claw. It wasn't the best he'd ever had, but it came pretty close. He grunted with pleasure, unapologetically spilling crumbs on Cas's coat. 'Dude. You  _need_ to try one of these.'

Cas stood up, his arms full of books, and glared at him. Dean fought the urge to grin, and lost. This Cas, he knew how to deal with. 'So, you want your clothes, or what?'

'What I  _want_ ,' said Cas, thumping the books on the table, 'is to know why I woke up next to you.' 

Dean almost choked on his bear claw. Somehow, he forced himself to chew and swallow the last of it, his thoughts a frantic blur.  _He doesn't remember the nightmare. Shit. What does he think happened?_

Cautiously, Dean asked just that. 'What do you remember?'

'Enough,' said Cas. He put his hands on his hips, and for a brief moment, Dean was distracted by the fit of his vest, which emphasised his waist and arms in ways that made him look edible. Actually, Dean amended, it  _should_ have made him look like an usher, but somehow didn't: instead, he wanted nothing so much as to slip his hands around Cas's waist and slide them up the silky fabric, up and down until Cas kissed him again, and bit his lip, and – 

He coughed, strategically repositioning the coat in his arms. 'Define  _enough._ '

'I remember the bar, and the, uh, landing.' Cas blushed at that, but then his voice turned hard. 'I also remember going inside,  _alone_ . So what I don't recall, Dean, is what the hell you were doing in my bed.'

Almost, Dean told him the truth.  _You had a screaming nightmare, is what. I touched your scars and triggered you, and you woke up still pleading with whatever bastard hurt you in the first place. I kissed your back, and held you, and last night, I thought it meant something. I still want it to mean something._ But the words wouldn't come, and as he looked into Castiel's eyes, he realised that, on some fundamental level, the other man was frightened. He didn't remember because he couldn't bear to, and as badly as Dean wanted to be honest, he also didn't want to bring Cas any more pain.

And so, instead, he laughed, as sheepishly as possible, and said, 'That would be my bad, sorry. I, uh – well, I guess I was a bit drunker than I thought, because when I got up to grab some water, I ended up getting lost in my own apartment. And, see, I'd kinda left the front door open – I do that when I'm drunk, you know – and somehow I got it into my head that I was in the wrong flat. And your door was unlocked, so I just came in, and, well, I was pretty out of it, so I guess I just crashed next to you without even noticing. Sorry.' He rubbed the back of his neck, and ducked his head, not having to feign embarrassment: it was an awful lie, and telling it itched at him like an army blanket.

'You got lost.'

'Yes.'

'In your own apartment.'

'Yes.'

Cas crossed his arms; the waistcoat pulled tight, and Dean had to force his gaze upwards.

'You,' said Cas, 'are a special kind of idiot. Has anyone ever told you that?'

Dean almost laughed with relief. 'Many times,' he said, and proffered the bundle of clothes again, no longer needing its protection. This time, Cas grabbed it from him, striding past to drape each item neatly over the back of his chair.

'Thanks,' he said, and maybe Dean was imagining things, but just for a second, the word seemed doubly weighted:  _thanks for letting me pretend_ . 

'No problem,' he said, his throat unexpectedly tight. 'You want a bear claw, too?'

Cas squinted at the bag, his forehead creasing adorably. 'Are they any good?'

'Try one and see.'

With comic suspicion, Cas reached into the bag and pulled out a bear claw, staring at it like he'd never seen one before. Slowly, he took a bite and chewed, his face suffused with careful concentration. He swallowed, cocked his head onside, and considered. Dean just smiled, the whole routine so sweetly serious, he could've watched it forever.

Finally, Cas offered a verdict: 'Not bad.' He took another bite. 'These from across the street?'

'They are,' said Dean – and then, as much for the sake of conversation as to be provocative, he added, 'Cute barista, too.'

'Oh?' Cas raised an eyebrow.

'Yeah. She remembers me, apparently. Said she might swing by the shop.'

'You sly dog,' Cas said drily, in the tone of someone who clearly thought both slyness and canines were highly overrated. 'Better go pick out a suitably peacockish album to woo her with.'

Dean blinked at him. 'Peacockish?'

'You know –' Cas waved the bear claw airily, '– show her your musical plumage. Big bright feathers, lashings of Bon Scott. Like a peacock, if peacocks listened to Steppenwolf.'

'Why, Cas!' said Dean, flirting outrageously to cover the fact that even hearing Cas say those names was a turn-on. 'I didn't think you cared.'

Cas favoured him with the bored, blue stare of a Siamese cat. 'I don't,' he said, flatly. 'But like I said, I hear you sing in the shower. And, you know. You talk to yourself in there. A lot.'

'I'm quirky that way,' said Dean. The coffee and the remaining bear claw in hand, he headed for the door. 'Later!' he called, and left before Cas could answer, striding into Impala Records as though he owned the place – which, in actual fact, he did.

He made it all the way to the register before he sagged, a small but significant hole in his chest where last night should have been.  _Don't,_ he told himself.  _Just – don't._

He took a deep breath, and started setting up.

 

*

 

Once Dean left, the morning proved surprisingly busy, which was a relief: it kept Cas from thinking too much about that second, ill-advised kiss. He sold a fat biology textbook to a college student who nearly broke down in tears of joy at finding it for less than a three-figure sum, a pair of SF paperbacks to a burly man in a trucker's cap, and then spent the next three hours engaging with a string of interested browsers. Ordinarily, that would have annoyed him – Cas liked to read at his desk, but struggled to relax when there were strangers present – but something about the day itself, or maybe just residual confidence from his trip to the bar, turned it into a pleasant experience. Despite his hangover, he smiled at people, and they smiled back; he even asked a few how their morning was so far, and was able to say that his was going well, too, when they replied in the affirmative.

By midday, his head still throbbed, but he was in such a good mood that, all at once, the prospect of trudging upstairs for yet another tin of the same, bland soup he always ate seemed like a form of cruel and unusual punishment. Remembering the bear claw, he made a snap decision and locked up for lunch, heading across to the bakery-café to see what else was on offer.

The place was called Well Bread, which he'd never quite noticed before; but then, he supposed, it had only been open a year or so, and in all that time, he'd somehow never eaten there. Unaccountably, he experienced a pang at the realisation, and forced himself to set it aside in favour of finding a table – no mean feat, as he'd managed to arrive at the start of the lunch rush. After a moment's hovering, Cas spied a free seat by the window and grabbed it, hungrily scanning the menu. Everything looked good, and when she finally came to his table, he said as much to the waitress. She laughed.

'Want my recommendation, then?'

'Please,' said Cas, and ended up ordering as much food as he usually ate in a day: a fresh baguette with bacon, brie and cranberry, a vanilla shake, and a slice of apple pie. The whole time he was waiting for his order, he felt almost dizzy with elation, as though he'd stepped outside of a box he hadn't known was there. The food, when it came, was delicious; he couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a milkshake, but it must have been years, even decades ago. His hangover melted away like ice in the sun, and as the rush began to die down, he sat back, replete, and wondered what had come over him.

'You enjoy that?' the waitress asked.

'Yes, very much,' said Cas. 'Thank you.'

He tipped her thirty percent, because he could, and because it was the nicest lunch he'd had in forever. Outside, it was warm and bright, and he surprised himself again by not going straight back to the shop, instead walking around the block and marvelling at the newness of this place he'd inhabited for six whole years, yet never really seen.

_You didn't want to see it,_ his blank voice whispered.  _You don't_ deserve _to see it._

Cas slowed his pace, a sour feeling prickling his throat. He forced the thoughts aside, determined to try and enjoy the moment, but it was no good: he could feel the world closing in again, the sky turned oppressive instead of open. Hunching his shoulders, he hurried back to the store and huddled down behind his desk, heart racing as if he'd run the whole way. He grabbed the nearest book, a history of the pharaohs, and tried to make himself read, but the words just blurred together, as indistinct as if they'd been smeared by rain.

He didn't know how long he sat there, clutching the book, before the shop bell rang again. Dry-eyed, he looked up, and found himself staring at a pale, solid, scruff-haired man with cunning eyes and a round, clever face. He wore a black suit – a  _fitted_ suit, not some cheap, off-the-rack job like Cas owned – and when he spoke, his voice was sandpaper rough, and burred with a slight English accent.

'Excuse me,' said the man, 'I was just wondering – when will the record shop be open?'

Cas blinked at him. 'It's not open now?'

'Not quite. It seems to be closed for lunch, and I thought you might know how long the owner's likely to be.'

'I don't know, sorry.' And then, because the man showed no sign of leaving, 'I'm sure it won't be too long, though. I don't think he ever takes more than an hour.'

'Ah.' The man smiled, seemingly satisfied. 'Thank you.'

Yet still, he lingered, eyes drifting over the books as if in search of inspiration. Cas waited patiently, and was eventually rewarded with another question.

'Your neighbour,' said the man, idly picking up a handsome hardback edition of  _Don Quixote._ 'What sort of man is he?'

Uneasily, Cas said, 'I don't know. I mean, I don't really know him all that well.' Which was perfectly true, and yet, after yesterday, it also felt like a lie, which is perhaps why, when the man remained silent, Cas added, 'He's frustrating. Determined, I think. And a bit of an ass. But good. A good man.'

The man raised a speculative eyebrow. 'I thought you didn't know him?'

'I don't. But that doesn't mean I'm completely lacking in judgement.'

The man chuckled, as though in appreciation of a point well scored. 'Fair enough,' he said, and to Cas's considerable surprise, he came and set the  _Don Quixote_ down on the counter. It was a folio society edition, bound in stamped leather, and one of the single priciest items he had. 'I'll take it. Card OK?'

'Sure,' said Cas, surprised. The whole exchange felt subtly off; he couldn't shake the feeling that the purchase was meant as a power play, and even if he didn't know why, it felt like actually speaking the price would've constituted losing. Silently, he rang up the book and handed over the card reader, trying to sneak a peek at the man's full name but only catching half of it: Crowley.

'Would you like a bag?' Cas asked.

Crowley shook his head. 'No, thanks. I'll read it while I wait.' He picked up the book and waggled it suggestively. 'Nice place you have, here, Mr –?'

'Novak. Cas Novak.'

'Mr Novak.' Crowley inclined his head and grinned. 'It was my pleasure.'

And with that, he left, the shop bell ringing in his wake.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Dean took a later lunch than usual, partly because he'd filled up on bear claws, but mostly, if he were being honest, so as not to run into Cas. He saw his neighbour cross the street to Well Bread, and even though part of him wanted nothing more than to find a pretext for joining him there, he couldn't bring himself to act on it. So he waited, growing steadily hungrier as the day wore on. He couldn't even cheer himself up by playing his music loudly: with Cas out, there was no point, and even if he'd wanted to annoy the hairdressers on his other side instead, they played their own CDs constantly, and between that and the endless blowdrying, his music barely registered.

At least the time spent waiting wasn't a total writeoff, business-wise. He sold a couple of vinyls to a hipster kid in a flannel shirt that looked suspiciously like someone had ironed it for him, and then an Andre Rieu CD – and what the hell had that been doing in the inventory, anyway? – to a woman who should've been old enough to know better. Still, Dean supposed, it wasn't his place to judge so long as he was getting paid, even if the guy did look like a douchebag of epic proportions.

He was about to cave in and go upstairs for a sandwich when he finally saw Cas leave the bakery. Groaning with relief, Dean grabbed the keys, hung up his Feeding Time At the Zoo – Back In 60 sign, and headed over the road. One advantage to having waited, he soon learned, was missing the crush: he had his pick of tables, and ordered at the counter rather than waiting for service. The same barista was still on shift, and as she waved in greeting, he belatedly read the name tag pinned to her red-and-white gingham blouse: Anna.

'Back for more?' she said, smiling.

'Guess I'm just a sucker for punishment,' said Dean. Sadly, there were no burgers, which was the main reason why he didn't go there every day, but the meatball and mozzarella panini sounded OK, so he went for that plus a slice of pie, and settled in at a window seat to wait.

It was weird: he couldn't put a finger on why, but Monument was starting to feel like home; or at least, it didn't feel so alien any more. To say Dean had a chequered past was an understatement, and most of that was due to a seemingly pathological inability to stay in one place, or one job, for longer than it took to grow a decent beard. Not that he'd ever grown a real beard – the closest he came was forgetting to shave for that week in Vegas – but that didn't change the point, which was that he'd never really been settled before. Growing up, his dad had travelled a lot for work, bouncing Dean and his brother from town to town, state to state as easily as other parents drove their kids to kickball practise. He'd joined the army straight out of school as much because it was easier than picking a place to live as for any other reason, and because, after everything he'd done to hide his bisexuality from his father, he'd been arrogant enough to assume that Don't Ask, Don't Tell would be a cakewalk.

And so it had been, at first. But then there'd been Basra, and Baghdad, and Dean had found there was only so much horror he could stomach alone, and – well. He shied away from the memories, his residual guilt over Daniel Lassiter still sufficiently strong that he didn't want to dwell on them. Sufficed to say, he'd been left with an honourable discharge, and used that as a springboard for applying to the police academy – an ironic career choice, given his many youthful infractions, but one that ultimately appealed for the same reason the army had: the training period came with a dormitory, and he still didn't have the first clue about how to live by himself. He'd gone where the job had sent him, and for a while, obedience had been enough – until, quite brutally, it wasn't.

After that, he'd more or less defaulted to working security, because it was ostensibly what he was good at, and because he hadn't yet realised that his youthful disdain for authority hadn't so much vanished as transmuted into an increasingly complex form of self-hatred. It took him a year to figure that out, and the best he could say of the experience in hindsight was that it hadn't killed him, though he still wasn't convinced that surviving it had made him any stronger. He'd had to rebuild himself from the ground up, but that was hard when the ground in question was about as firm as wet jelly. He'd tried his hand at being a mechanic, like his father had sometimes been, and he was good at the work, but something had still been missing, and in the end, he'd given that up, too. And then had come a string of shitty jobs in shittier towns, culminating in the disastrous adoption of many ferrets, an all-in brawl, some pained, familial grovelling, and then, finally, the purchase of Impala Records and the corresponding move to Monument.

The panini arrived, along with the pie, and Dean attacked both dishes with inordinate relief. Introspection was all well and good, but frankly, his own problems bored him, and it wasn't like he could change the past. Hunger, though, was something he could always solve successfully, and if the only thing he accomplished all day was eating lunch, that was still better than the alternative.

The panini did nothing to sway his faith in the primacy of burgers, but then, he hadn't expected it to. The pie, though – goddamn, but the pie was  _good_ . It was the best thing to happen to his mouth in days that hadn't involved Cas Novak, and just at that moment, he couldn't think of any higher praise.

The last of the meal demolished, he went to pay just as Anna, the barista, was getting off-shift: she ducked under the counter without looking and almost crashed into him, stammering out an apology as she straightened.

'I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!' She clapped a hand to her mouth and burst out laughing. 'Oh, man, that was not as smooth as I'd hoped for.'

Dean grinned. 'You wanted to be smooth for me?'

She flushed, which was a reward all by itself. 'Maybe a little. Why, did it work?'

'Not so much. But I'm digging the whole adorkable thing, so it balances out.'

'Adorkable? Seriously?' She made a face, then shrugged, a sly smile tugging her mouth. 'I can work with that.' She cocked her head at the door. 'I know you've eaten, but I'm famished. Walk a girl to a café where she hasn't scrubbed the grill?'

Dean hesitated. He was honest enough to admit his interest in Cas, and didn't want to lead Anna on, but it was just a walk to lunch, and at this point, he didn't owe Cas anything. 'Sure,' he said. 'You have somewhere in mind?'

'As a matter of fact, I do.' She lead him outside, and instantly turned down a tiny sidestreet Dean had always assumed was a dead end. Instead, it lead to flight of narrow steps wedged between concrete walls.

'I never knew this was here,' Dean said.

Anna grinned. 'There's more to Monument than meets the eye. You haven't been here long, right?'

'Three months, yeah.'

'It's a great place to live. I grew up here, so I know my way around pretty well. Where were you before?'

'Redwood City, in California.'

She looked at him, surprised. 'That's on the other side of the country!'

'Yeah, tell me about it. It took me four days to drive here.'

'You  _drove_ ?' 

'Well, yeah.' Now it was his turn to look at her. 'How else was I meant to get my car here?'

'I guess,' she said, in the dubious tones of someone who's never lived outside their home state. 'Even so, no offence or anything, but that's a pretty long way to come to sell CDs. What, they didn't have any record stores in California?'

'Not like this one,' Dean said, honestly.

'Oh? And what makes yours so special?'

'Three things. One, I could actually afford it up front; two, it was available more or less instantly; and three, it's far, far away from my family. Or what's left of them, anyway,' he amended, unable to keep a bitter note from creeping into his voice.

For a moment, Anna was silent. The stairs had emptied them out onto a cement path, which wound through a patch of scrubby, rubbish-strewn grass and stunted trees that could only be called a park if you were feeling exceptionally generous. The whole strip was cast in permanent shade, courtesy of both the hill behind them and the towering buildings on either side. To Dean's eye, they looked like old factories, though what they were now was anyone's guess, and for a moment, he felt utterly disoriented. Then he looked ahead again, and recognised the distinctive silhouette of the Green Street town hall clock, which meant that the stairs and park were a dubious but extremely effective shortcut between High Cross, where Dean lived, and the more fashionable, gentrified district of Abbeyside.

As they came closer, Anna pointed to a building half-obscured by the branches of what looked like the non-park's only flourishing tree. 'That's where I'm headed,' she said. 'There's an arcade through there, and this little place on the ground floor does an amazing veggie lasagne.'

'I'll take your word for it,' said Dean. 'I'm not, uh, big on the vegetarian options.'

'Neither am I, normally,' she replied, 'but trust me: this stuff's good enough to warrant the exception.' She tucked a curl behind her ear. 'So, you're not too tight with your family, huh?'

'You could say that.' He shrugged, reluctant to elaborate. 'It's complicated.'

'I can respect that,' Anna said. 'I don't see mine much these days, either. But, hey – you make your own family, right?'

She'd clearly meant it as a cheering remark, but somehow, it had the opposite effect on Dean. He sighed and stopped, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his head. 'Listen, Anna, you seem really nice and everything, but I'm a bit, uh –'

'Hung up on someone else?' His surprise must have shown on his face. She laughed, but there was no sting in it. 'Yeah, I figured as much.'

'Is it that obvious?'

'To the highly trained eye of a professional coffeewench, yes. The whole time you were waiting for your food, you kept on staring out the window like you were looking for someone who wasn't coming. Believe me, I know the expression.' She pulled a face. 'Personal experience.'

'That sucks.'

'Yeah, it does.' She tossed her head. 'Whatever. It's his loss. So, did someone actually stand you up, or were you just, you know, musing on their absence?'

'The second one. Sort of. It's –'

'– complicated, yeah. I'm starting to see a pattern.' Smiling, she pulled out her phone. 'Listen – Dean, isn't it?' He nodded, and she sighed with relief. 'Oh, thank god. You told me when you first came in, but I wasn't sure I'd remembered right. And I'm Anna, by the way – I'm guessing you read the name tag, but, you know, just in case. Anyway!' She waved a hand. 'So, this was fun, but I am  _super_ hungry, and I'm guessing you've got to get back to work, so give me your number, and we can do this again sometime, in a strictly non-date, let's-be-friends-and-bitch-about-the-people-who-aren't-sleeping-with-us kind of way. I mean, I don't know about you, but I could kind of use someone to talk to these days, and seeing as how you're new around here, I figured that maybe you do, too. But if I'm out of line,' she added, hurriedly, 'just, you know, say so, and I promise I won't freak out or spit in your coffee or anything.'

Dean laughed. He decided he quite liked Anna, and that, all things considered, the offer of friendship was an appealing one. 'Sure thing,' he said, and took the phone from her, tapping his number in before handing it back. He was genuinely surprised when, rather than pocketing it straight away, she sent him a text – he felt the answering beep as his pocket vibrated.

'There's my number,' she said. 'I mean, I'm usually pretty cautious about giving it out, but you already know where I work and the creepy-dangerous shortcut I use to get lunch, so if you do turn out to be a crazy stalker, at least this way, I can keep tabs on you. Sort of.'

Dean held up a hand. 'I promise, I am not a crazy stalker. Scout's honour.'

She shot him an amused glance. 'You were  _so_ never a boy scout.' 

'True,' said Dean, 'but I did sleep with one once. It rubs off on you.'

Anna's eyebrows shot up. 'Very complicated!'

'And ruggedly handsome with it.'

'Not so much with the modesty, though.'

'Yeah, that was never my strong suit.'

'Well!' said Anna, after a moment. 'That veggie lasagne's not going to eat itself. I'll see you around?'

'You will,' said Dean.

With that established, Anna gave him a pat on the arm and sauntered off towards Green Street, leaving him alone in the almost-park. Dean watched her go, then turned around and headed back, taking the stairs two at a time as if in part apology for the detour. He didn't quite know how to feel about Anna's observation that he was hung up on Cas, either – hell, he wasn't about to deny there was something to it, but mostly, he'd been thinking about himself, and if his gaze had sometimes strayed to Books of a Feather, then that was only natural: the damn place was right in his eyeline.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he was halfway over the road before he realised the black-clad figure standing outside Impala Records was someone he actually recognised, and level with his car before he remembered, too late, why he didn't want to see them.

Biting back a curse, Dean rolled his eyes and unlocked the door. 'Hey there, Crowley.'

'Dean.' Crowley bobbed his obsequious head, his mouth curved upwards in a smile that didn't quite touch his eyes, on account of the fact they were too busy sneering to bother. 'So nice to see you again.'

'That's a matter of opinion,' Dean muttered, grabbing the sign from the door and only just resisting the urge to fling it in Crowley's face. Instead, he stalked to the counter and set it down, his back set to the register. 'What are you even doing here?'

'Sightseeing?' Crowley offered. 'Well, I did meet your neighbour – even bought myself a souvenir.' He hefted a fat leather book. 'Pleasant fellow, though a bit stiff. Who wears a tie to sell books?'

'I'm going ask you one more time, Crowley: what do you  _want_ ?'

'Very little, actually. Just a simple favour.'

'A favour.'

'Yes.'

'You flew all the way here to ask me for a favour?'

'I would've called,' said Crowley, 'but you would've hung up.'

'Damn right I would,' said Dean, angrily. 'You and me, we're quits, Crowley. I don't owe you jack.'

Crowley grinned his most loansharkish grin. 'You're quite right, of course.  _You_ owe me nothing. Your brother, on the other hand, does, and as we both know which Winchester is capable of best serving my interests – well. You can see why I made the trip.'

Dean clenched his fists, advancing on Crowley before he could stop himself. 'You son of a bitch,' he growled, 'you leave Sammy alone, you hear me?'

'Darling,' said Crowley, with acid patience, 'I  _am_ . Or aren't you paying attention? It's you I'm interested in, not him.' 

'Oh, right. Of course. You haven't been near him at all!'

'Now, now, Dean. Don't leap to conclusions. He hunted me down of his own free will – he'll tell you that himself, should you care to call him. What he might be less willing to admit, if pressed, is that I made it perfectly clear to him what I wanted by way of repayment, and he signed you over without so much as a batted eyelid.' Crowley chuckled, and Dean's heart sank. 'Boy's going to make a fine lawyer some day, and sooner rather than later. Of course, that's the trouble with partial scholarships, isn't it? All those pesky financial gaps. It's a travesty. You Yanks should be ashamed of yourselves, forcing poor innocent students into the clutches of men like me. It's unseemly.'

Dean turned away, rubbing his temples. 'Just spit it out, Crowley. Tell me what you want.'

'Attaboy, Dean. Straight down to brass tacks.' He rocked on his heels. 'A dear associate of mine is visiting Monument on business, which is currently set for next week. Nothing shady, nothing strange – just a bit... delicate. However, it transpires that his right-hand man has recently come down with a fatal case of foot in mouth, leaving him, shall we say, at a loose end for security. He needs someone reliable to stand in for an evening – just an evening, mind, a single soiree – and naturally, when he came to me with the problem, I thought of you.'

Dean grit his teeth. 'And what do I get in return?'

'You, personally? Nothing.' Crowley's teeth were white and sharp. 'Just the sweet, fraternal satisfaction of knowing your brother can pay his tuition for the semester, and the gift of my good opinion.'

He wanted to argue. He wanted to say no. But even though he didn't trust Crowley further than he could throw him – and even though he'd sure as hell be having words with Sammy about dumping this on him without so much as a heads up – deep down, Dean already knew how things would pan out.

And Crowley, who knew everything, knew it too. 'I'll give you a day to think it over. Speak to your brother, howl at the moon, make peace with your conscience. Whatever you have to do. But when you say yes, as we both know you will –' and here, he proffered a business card, '– call me at this number, and I'll make the necessaries.'

Dean snatched the card and shoved it angrily into his pocket. 'Get out of my store, Crowley.'

The loan shark  _tsked_ . 'Manners, Winchester. You might like to try them sometime.' 

'I would,' said Dean, 'but they'd be wasted on you.'

'Touché!' Crowley tapped the book to his forehead: a pointed salute in more ways than one. The man was a spider: he missed nothing, made no empty gestures, and for the first time, the full significance of his  _souvenir_ hit Dean like a train crash. It paralysed him, and as Crowley strolled insouciantly away, his chest was so tight, he could barely breathe. Of course Crowley had sent someone to look in on him before showing up in person; of course he'd made a point of stopping by Books of a Feather.

Crowley knew about Dean and Cas, and wasn't afraid to exploit it.

 

*

 

Despite its shaky start, the day had gone well for Cas. Even without the  _Don Quixote_ sale, his takings were good, his lunch had been delicious, and the waistcoat was a definite success. As comforting as his old suit was, he could see now he'd been using it as a safety blanket – one he could, evidently, do without. From now on, he decided, it would be kept it in reserve, for use in emergencies only – after all, most normal people didn't need a self-imposed uniform to cope with selling books, so why should he? 

With the store safely locked and the ledgers filled in, he went upstairs and, in yet another departure from his usual routine, decided to treat himself to an evening shower. He'd just stepped under the warm spray, savouring the sensation of his hair turning from dry to damp to drenched, when he was interrupted by the sound of someone knocking frantically at the front door. Puzzled, he turned off the taps – whoever it was, they'd be gone soon – wrapped himself in a towel, and went to answer it. Probably, it was a courier; he was expecting a new delivery of books, and every time, it was fifty-fifty as to whether they got delivered to the actual shop, or to him personally.

'Yes?' he said, pulling the door open.

It was Dean, his hand comically raised in the act of knocking. Cas stared at him, pinned to the spot by a welter of confused emotions. His only consolation was that Dean looked just as embarrassed by the sight of him as Cas was to be seen. Gulping, he backed away from the door a pace, and was relieved when Dean didn't construe his retreat as an invitation. In fact, he seemed to have temporarily lost the power of speech: he just stood there, and after a moment, Cas was forced to take the initiative.

'Dean?' he prompted, wanting to get it over with, whatever  _it_ turned to be. 

'Oh! Um, yeah, I – uh, it's clearly a bad time, I can, you know, come back –'

'Please do. Later.'

'How much later?'

Cas hesitated. 'Is it really that important?'

Dean shuffled his feet, almost painfully awkward. 'No. Yes. Maybe. I just, uh, I just needed to talk to you about something that happened today, about someone –'

'Dean.' Cas cut him off, the barest flicker of amusement serving to soften his tone. ' _Later_ .' 

'Right! Right. I'll just, uh, I'll just –' And with that, he turned and fled, leaving Cas to stand in the evening breeze, confused and still dripping.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Dean shut the door and leaned against it, closing his eyes in a futile attempt to banish the image of Cas's half-naked body. Seeing him last night had been one thing, but this – this was something else entirely. He bit his lip, and tried to pretend he hadn't been brazenly hypnotised by the trajectory of a single drop of water curling down Cas's neck, collecting briefly in the hollow of his throat before trickling across the flat planes of his chest and stomach, there to be absorbed by his towel.  _Dear god_ . He swallowed, shook his head, and forced himself brutally, but effectively, to return to the problem at hand: exactly how in the hell was he supposed to explain Crowley's veiled, not-quite-a-threat to Cas without either spooking him or coming across like a paranoid idiot – or, worse still, without divulging any of the shadier details of his past life?

Unable to find a solution, he pulled out his phone and, for the sixth time since he'd closed the shop, dialled Sammy's room at Stanford. As before, there was no answer, and when he tried his mobile, that, too, went to voicemail.

'Fan-fucking-tastic, Sam,' he muttered, flinging the phone at his lounge. It bounced off the cushions, landing on the rug with a sad little  _thomp_ . Sighing, Dean picked it up and shoved it back in his pocket. Not that he called his brother often, but when he did, it wasn't all that unusual for Sam to neglect to answer. If he wasn't in class or out with his girlfriend, then he was screening his calls, and as angry as Dean was at having Crowley dropped on his head like a bucket of blood, he could well imagine that Sam was delaying the inevitable argument in the hope that, by the time he finally picked up, Dean might have calmed down. 

Running his hands through his hair, Dean stalked into the kitchen and grabbed a beer, necking a good third of it in a single hit before collapsing onto the lounge, his head tipped back in an attitude of prayer. Goddamit, Monument was meant to have gotten him free of this crap – not just Sam and Crowley, but everything they represented, all the lost opportunities, the bad decisions and old lies. He was actually building something here, or trying to, and maybe Cas was part of that, and maybe Dean just wanted him to be, but now he'd never know, because if there was one thing he knew about the bookseller, it was that Castiel Novak liked his life to be simple, and if Dean alone was a complicating factor, then Dean with a semi-criminal associate and a truckload of past mistakes was infinitely moreso.

And Cas had just stood there, wet and gleaming and perfect, and looked at him like he was from another planet.

Dean stifled a groan and drank his beer, and was seriously considering getting another one when someone knocked at the door.

Dean's head jerked up. Even knowing rationally it had to be Cas, he still didn't quite believe it, but when he wrenched the door open, the evidence was right there in front of him, freshly showered and wearing an untucked, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

'Cas!' he said, stupidly. 'I, uh. Come in, please.'

He stepped aside and waved Cas into the flat, an absurd feeling of self-consciousness sweeping through him. Cas's place was hardly the Taj Mahal, but after so many years spent living in dives with fourth-hand furniture and crappy carpet, Dean was strangely protective of his efforts at making a – well, not a  _home_ , exactly, but somewhere that felt like him. He shut the door, gaze travelling nervously across his possessions – the fifties fridge, the framed posters, the comfy blue lounge and mismatched chair – before returning to Cas.

The bookseller crossed his arms. 'So. You had something to tell me, and apparently, it couldn't wait.'

'Yeah,' said Dean. 'Yeah, about that.' He gestured to the lounge. 'We should maybe, uh, sit down.'

Cas eyed the lounge like it was going to bite him, perching tentatively on the edge. 'OK,' he said, as Dean dropped into the armchair. 'Not to sound paranoid, but you're starting to make me nervous.'

'Right. Yeah. Sorry,' said Dean.

He took a deep breath, and began.

 

*

 

'A guy came into your store today,' said Dean, hands twisting nervously in his lap. 'English, kinda shady-looking, wearing a suit. He bought, uh, I don't know what it was called, but it was big, leatherbound –'

'I remember,' said Cas. 'He me asked about you.'

'He did?'

'Yeah. He wanted to know what I thought of you, what my impression was.'

'And?' Dean leaned forward, his tone urgent. 'What did you tell him?'

Cas frowned. 'Nothing. I said you were good, but annoying. That's it. Why? Who was he?'

'He was a –' Dean worked his jaw, glancing sideways and down. 'Aw hell, Cas. He was a damn loan shark, is what. A guy I knew back in California.'

'A  _what?_ '

'A loan shark.' Dean seemed to brace himself. 'And he knows about us.'

A sick, icy feeling spread through Cas's stomach. 'What do you mean, he knows about us? There  _is_ no 'us' to know about, Dean.' 

'I know that. Believe me, Cas, I know. But Crowley doesn't.' He took a ragged breath. 'Just – just let me get this out, OK?'

'OK,' said Cas, too shocked to do or say anything else. He felt cold, dissociated from himself, and that was never a good sign. He tried to focus on Dean, on the sheer physicality of him – anything to keep from slipping outside himself. Dean ran a hand down his face, his shoulders tense.

'I don't really know where to start, but the long and the short of it is, I've done some things I'm not proud of. A few years ago, I was pretty hard up against it, and I ended up owing Crowley and his mooks some favours. I paid them all back, got myself straight, and I thought – well, I guess I thought that meant he was done with me, that I could move on with my life. But I have this brother –'

'Older or younger?' Cas asked.

Dean blinked in surprise, and Cas felt his neck grow warm. 'Younger,' said Dean. 'His name's Sam, and he's at Stanford. Studying to be a lawyer, and you know, he's a smart kid. Always was. When he started out, the university gave him a full ride, but what with the economy tanking, I guess they lost some of their funding, or had to re-prioritise, or some bullshit like that – or maybe they're just a bunch of selfish dicks, I don't know. But whatever it was, he came out the other side with a partial scholarship instead, and I mean, that's still a lot of money, but I told him, I  _told_ him that if he ever needed help, he just had to say the word, but maybe he didn't believe me, or maybe he was just too proud to ask, because instead, he went to Crowley for a loan, and Crowley's idea of a fixed repayment scheme is to show up on my doorstep saying I owe him one.'

'That... doesn't sound too smart,' said Cas.

Dean laughed weakly. 'Yeah. It's not. But Crowley – I mean, the guy's an ass, and you'd have to be dumb as fuck to trust him, but it's not like the banks are any better. They'll bleed you dry for a missing dime, and once they start talking interest rates, you might as well be making a deal with the devil.'

'I can see that,' said Cas, carefully, 'but it still doesn't explain how Crowley, ah, 'knows about us,' as you put it.'

'Oh. Right.' Dean licked his lips, which was more distracting than it ought to have been. 'See, with Crowley, there's no way he just shows up at my place without having someone check it out first – to get the lay of the land, you know – and yesterday, we weren't exactly, uh, discreet. I mean, if there was someone outside your shop, or watching when we came back from the bar –'

Cas swallowed, his pleasure and guilt at the memories all tangled up with resentment at being forced to confront them. His blank voice wanted to push the argument, demand to know why Dean was so certain Crowley knew, and why it mattered if he did, and just what the implication was with all of this, anyway – that Cas was in danger? That Crowley might be in a position to scare up someone who gave a crap and out them? What?

But one look at Dean, at the dejected lines of his body, and somehow, all he could find to say was, 'I take your point.'

Clearly, it wasn't the sort of reaction Dean had been anticipating. His opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. 'You take my point? That's it?'

'Why wouldn't it be?' Cas leaned forwards, an unexpected lump in his throat. 'Listen, Dean, whatever you might think of me – whatever my life looks like to you – I'm not some sheltered ingénue who's never had to make a hard decision. Believe me, I can understand your position, and I'm... I'm grateful, that you were upfront about it.' He smiled sardonically. 'Don't get me wrong, I'm not exactly over the moon that some Shylock has claws in you or your brother, or that he's aware I might – that we – that there's, ah, something – that we've been intimate,' he finally managed, fumbling for words, 'but, as the saying goes, forewarned is forearmed. And now I'm forewarned, and that's... well, that's not nothing.'

He fell silent, suddenly aware that Dean was looking at him with the sort of soft intensity that would've made a wall go weak in the bricks. Drymouthed, he tried to think of something to say, something to snap them both back to reality, but all he could think of was Dean, and how badly he wanted him, and why he shouldn't. And there were reasons – good, solid reasons – to keep well clear, even before you factored in Crowley. Dean wasn't even the biggest problem: it was  _Cas_ , him and his neuroses, baggage that no sane person either could or should be expected to put up with, and how did you even get to a point where someone might want to take that risk, when even taking his shirt off could trigger a panic attack? But he was sick of self-denial, sick of shrinking himself, and when Dean asked, 'So, where does that leave us?', Cas found himself saying, 'I don't know. Where do you want us to be?'

For a moment, Dean went very still. Then, slowly, he eased himself out of the chair and crossed the floor, stopping just in front of Cas, whose pulse was thundering in his ears. Dean knelt like a supplicant, his head at the level with Cas's throat, those green eyes looking up at him from under dark lashes. Gently, he rested his hands on Cas's knees and slid his palms upwards, easing his thighs apart to make room for himself. His fingers came to rest on Cas's hips, where they dug in, Dean pulling himself closer like a hooked fish luring the fisherman, and all the while, his gaze never wavered. With aching tenderness, he lifted a hand to Cas's throat, sliding his long fingers up and back, until they curled around his neck, bringing him forwards.

'I want this,' Dean said, huskily.

Cas closed his eyes. Their lips brushed – a teasing touch – and just like that, he couldn't wait any more; he leaned in and kissed him fiercely, digging one hand into Dean's hair as the other gripped his shoulder. Dean kissed back, their bodies pressed together, the hand at Cas's hip encouraging him forwards until, with a growl of impatience, Cas slid off the lounge altogether, kneeling with his legs on either side of Dean's, both hands moving to lift his shirt and pull it over his head. Dean was panting, and Cas took a breathless moment to appreciate the effect this had on his muscular torso, bare except for a black leather necklace strung with a silver charm. Gripping Dean's waist, he leaned in and set his mouth at the junction of throat and collarbone, half biting, half sucking as Dean tipped his head back and moaned, all the while running his thumbs up and down the inside of Cas's thighs until he was so hard, so aching to be stroked, that it was almost painful.

Kissing up Dean's throat to his ear, Cas bit the lobe and whispered, 'Lie back.'

Dean shivered and obeyed, first bracing his weight on his palms, then sliding back until he lay prone on the floor, eyes fixed on Cas as his breath came hard and fast. His submission was intoxicating; Cas savoured it, smiling down at him as one hand traced lazy patterns across Dean's stomach. Always in the past, his partners – men and women both – had mistakenly thought he was sexually passive, and reacted accordingly; perhaps it was due to his scars or his shyness or some other thing, but either way, the dissonance never ended well. But Dean, who was otherwise so cheekily domineering, gave way to Cas like he wanted nothing better than to be bossed, teased, conquered, and it made the breath burn his throat.

Moving his hand down, Cas undid Dean's belt, pulling it slowly free with a hiss of leather on denim. He kept hold of it, some subtle spark or plea in Dean's gaze seeming to beg it of him, and for a moment, the thought of cinching his wrists – of feeling him strain, captive and pleading, as Cas explored the rest of him – was overwhelming.

The memory reared up and struck him, cobra-fast and twice as deadly: Brother Tiberius, belt in hand, the silver tongue white-hot from hours spent in the sun, and the sickening bite as it landed.

Cas gasped as if he'd been punched and dropped the belt, staring at his hands like they were alien things.  _Oh god, oh god._ He fell back, scrambling to his feet, unable to look at Dean and unable to flee, either, because Dean – who'd risen, too – was still between him and the door. 

'Cas?' Dean's voice was gentle, not mocking or confused. 'Cas, it's OK. It's OK.'

'It's not.' He turned away, fists clenched rigidly by his sides, his eyes downcast. His pulse beat an angry staccato through the lines of his scars, and he  _knew_ , in a way that was utterly terrifying, that if Dean so much as touched his back, he would scream, and shove, and run, and quite possibly never forgive himself; but he could no more articulate the fear than he could've flown to the moon, and so he just stood there, sick with the thought of what might happen next.

But Dean didn't touch his back. Instead, he walked in front of Cas, came close enough to touch, but not within his personal space, and lifted his chin with a finger. It was so unexpected, Cas almost burst into tears; his head jerked up, and Dean was there, his forehead creased with concern.

'Cas, it's OK,' he repeated.

His kindness was unbearable; Cas looked away again, utterly undeserving. From somewhere, he laughed, but the sound came out thin and strangled. 'Like I said before. I'm unstable.'

'You're not unstable. Hey, look at me.  _Look_ at me.'

Trembling, Cas forced himself to obey. 'I'm not right, Dean,' he said, and his voice almost broke on the words. 'I'm not – I'm not normal.'

'No one is, Cas. There's no such thing. And you're not unstable, either – you just have triggers. That's not your fault. It's nobody's fault, except whatever piece of shit hurt you bad enough to leave them in the first place, and anyone who'd hold it against you isn't worth your time. I didn't –' and here it was Dean who briefly looked away, as though steeling himself, '– I didn't get lost last night, Cas. I swear, I didn't want to lie to you; I just didn't want to make things worse.'

'Make what worse?' he asked. The words came out raw and scraped, and even before Dean answered, on some level, Cas realised he already knew, though he wished like hell he didn't.

'You had a nightmare,' Dean said. 'Bad enough it woke me up. Your door was unlocked, like I said, so I came in, and you were... you were begging, I don't know who, but once I got you calmed down a bit, I saw your back, and you said –'

'What?' He was almost shouting. 'What did I say?'

Quietly, Dean said, 'That you dreamed about how it happened. And I figured it was all my fault for bringing it on, so I stayed, and you fell asleep, and that was it. Only then you didn't remember, and it didn't – well, it didn't seem like a kindness to try and change that. So I lied.'

In vivid detail, Cas recalled the touch of Dean's hands on his scars, and how badly he'd panicked. But this time, he realised, Dean had kept his hands elsewhere, even when touching his back would've been the most natural thing in the world; and yet he'd submitted to him, too, willing and ready to let go. And with that realisation, Cas started to shake in earnest, because nobody he'd ever slept with, not one single person, had ever been so considerate of his preferences. Either they'd frowned at his flinching, telling him to get over it, or they'd tried to use it as evidence that he wasn't  _really_ dominant, just too scared of being hurt to properly relax. If the former, the usual response was to treat him as though he just needed a firm hand, while the latter assumed he was made of glass, his every assertive action dismissed as a symptom of fear, and nothing more. 

But what Dean had done for him was unprecedented; Cas didn't know how to handle it. The idea that someone he barely knew would go to those lengths to make him comfortable – god, he wanted so badly to believe it was a good thing, but the truth sat under his ribs like a second stone heart: he was messed up, worthless, and even if Dean was willing to accommodate him, that didn't mean he should have to, or that Cas deserved the effort.

He stepped back, hugging himself, and shook his head at the pleading look on Dean's face.

'I can't,' he said. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'

'Don't. Please, Cas –'

But it was too much; he couldn't bear it.

He turned and fled.

_Just as well,_ the blank voice whispered.  _Running's all you're good for._

 

*

 

Dean stared at the door, half-hoping that if he waited long enough, it would open again and Cas would be there, ready to talk, or maybe –  _please, god_ – just ready for something else. But it wasn't going to happen; of course it wasn't, because he was the stupid sonofabitch who'd thought it was a good idea to lie about something as obviously important as a triggering flashback and how he'd come to be in bed with the person having it, and why the fuck should Cas ever want to trust him after that? But oh, Jesus, the look on his face when he'd told him... Dean felt sick to his stomach, and the worst thing was, it was only fair, because he'd been around enough trauma cases – hell, had  _been_ enough of a trauma case, once – to know you didn't ever fuck with something like that, no matter how pure your intentions.

'Dammit!'

He went to kick the lounge, but held back at the last moment, using the momentum to pivot instead. He shut his eyes, trying to desperately to calm down. He was furious at himself, and achingly hard, but the thought of bringing himself off alone when he could've had Cas instead, if only he'd handled things better – it was torture.  _So why are you bothering?_ a sour voice wondered.  _You don't need this sort of baggage, all this hot-and-cold bullshit_ .  _So he gives you the good touch – so what! He doesn't want you, or if he does, he won't let himself admit it. Stop beating yourself up. Walk away. Go back to being neighbours._

Which was, on one level, sound advice. But even so, Dean wasn't about to take it. After three months of unconscious flirting, the most erotically charged not-sex of his life and twenty-nine years of failing to quit while he was ahead, he wasn't about to walk away without a fight. He didn't know what it was about Cas that had him so turned around, but goddamn, did he want to find out.

That decided him: he had to make amends. The impulse was so strong, he was almost out the front door before he remembered why Cas had left, that he had to give him space. Or maybe that was the worst thing he could do; maybe he should've chased after him, rather than standing there like a statue. The contradiction made his head hurt: go or stay? He didn't know, and in the absence of knowledge, he took the path of least resistance, and stayed.

He went and got another beer, and turned the TV on, and decided to get deeply, numbingly drunk.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Cas didn't go home; his flat was a cage, a daily reminder of everything he denied himself, and he'd already passed his limits on that particular lesson. The back stairs clattered beneath his feet, and even before he reached the alley, he already knew it was cold enough that he'd soon regret not having a coat. Even so, he couldn't make himself turn around and get one. He needed movement – or rather, the illusion of progress it lent him – and anyway, he felt like punishing himself.

Not having a car, he walked, no destination in mind beyond the simple, driving need to be somewhere else. At least he didn't lack for energy: all that thwarted arousal had to go somewhere, and as nightfall steadily bruised the sky from peach to puce to purple, he left the familiar streets of High Cross for their alien counterparts in Abbeyside, and then, when he'd exhausted that district, in Southwall, where he'd never been before. He only slowed once darkness fell, and when he did, it soon proved to be a mistake: not only did he have no idea where he was, but speed had lent him a borrowed warmth that evaporated like kettlesteam the second he fell back to his usual pace.

He was lost, and cold, and far from home; and only then, with his legs burning from nearly two straight hours of unaccustomed exercise, did he think to pat his pockets for the wallet and phone he didn't actually have, because they were back on the bench in his unlocked flat, just where he'd left them.

Cas stood in a nameless alley and laughed, tears leaking out of his eyes, and when a rough, unfamiliar voice said, 'Gimme your wallet, man. Gimme your fuckin' wallet!', all he could do was laugh harder, because he didn't  _have_ his wallet, and being in physical danger didn't make the irony any less palpable.

'Can't,' he finally choked out. 'I left it at home.'

'Bullshit you fuckin' did,' said the man. He had a knife in his hand, and the glint of it worked wonders on Cas's attention span. 'Just gimme your shit, dude.'

'I'm serious,' Cas said, sobering slightly, but not fast enough to be as scared as part of him knew he should be. 'Search me. I really don't have anything.'

'Fuckin'  _bullshit_ !' the man screamed, and suddenly he was right in Cas's face, the knife to his throat, his free hand pawing angrily through his pockets. Cas froze: there was a dreadful, parodic intimacy to the robber's touch, especially when he searched his pants, and his encounter with Dean was still recent enough that it felt like a different sort of violation. 

' _Bullshit_ ,' his assailant panted, finally realising Cas had nothing to steal, and there was fear in the word, and rage.

Cas opened his mouth, but suddenly found he was staggering back, a burst of pain exploding through his temples: the man had smashed the knife-hilt into his face, and as he swayed, his assailant struck again, and again, until Cas fell to his knees, and then there was a boot in his ribs – he toppled over – and one more, just for good measure. He curled up, coughing, only half aware of the sound of running footsteps. A trickle of blood seeped down his face, gumming one eyelid shut. Or was the eye already hurt? He couldn't tell; his head was swimming, spikes of pain hammering into him from head and belly, and for a brief, nauseating moment, his mouth flooded with saliva.

He didn't vomit, though. Instead, he blacked out, and that was even more terrifying, because he had no way of telling how much time had passed in the interim, whether he'd lost seconds or minutes or longer still. He was utterly alone, and it was all his fault for leaving everyone behind – his mother, his siblings, John Aveline, and now Dean, because all he knew how to do was run. Cas shut his good eye, and for a terrible moment, he wished it would never open again. But he wasn't dying, not by a long shot; he was just bruised and a little bit bloody, and god knew, he'd survived worse beatings. He took a deep breath, and it hurt, but not in the stabbing way that meant cracked ribs, which was something. Slowly, he moved his arms forward, palms down on the pavement, and pushed until he was sitting upright, his back to the alley wall.

For a minute, he just slumped there, shivering in the cold. He didn't know where to go, but staying put seemed like a worse idea. It took him a three tries, but finally, he hauled himself upright, not liking the drunken spin of his vision or the way his bruised muscles pulled, but not having any alternative means of getting home, he forced himself to walk. He leaned on the wall for support, staggering along until he ran out of alley, then picked his direction more or less at random.

One block later, he found a bar, which was just as well, because he didn't think he could have walked much further. A burly bouncer did a double-take at his approach, first bristling at a possible threat, then calling for help when he saw the blood.

'I got jumped. Mugged,' Cas said, almost numb with shock and cold, and let himself be ushered inside. Someone – he didn't know who – sat him down at an empty table opposite a flatscreen TV showing a 24 hour news channel, the announcer's voice a pleasant burr in the background. As if by magic, a glass of whiskey appeared in front of him; Cas sipped at it, wincing as the burn revealed he had a cut lip, too.

'We've called the police,' said the bouncer. 'They'll be here soon, get you patched up.'

'Thanks,' he mumbled, but the man was already gone.

He sat in a bubble, conscious that the bar's few other patrons were staring at him, but equally conscious of the fact that he didn't care. The sound of the TV washed over him, the newscast steadily resolving itself from white noise into speech, until he couldn't help listening.

_'Returning now to tonight's main story, in an escalating situation which is already being described as a second Waco, a raid on a religious compound in the Mojave Desert has turned violent, with Nevada police and ATF officials engaged in a stand-off with armed members of the Fellowship of the Righteous Angels. Formed by Aaron John Feltner in 1996 following the collapse of Heaven's Children, the Fellowship soon came under radical new leadership when disgraced priest Father Martin Bruckner, known to his congregation as Brother Tiberius, ousted Feltner in a doctrinal coup, turning what had been an obscure religious commune into a radical sect with links to far right extremist groups. We go live to our on the ground correspondent, Sarah Chomsky, who –'_

Cas didn't remember how the glass got into his hand, let alone throwing it. He did remember the TV exploding, a glorious shower of fire and sparks that stopped the newsreader talking, but after that, it was all a blur: people shouting, the police arriving, an ambulance siren, and in the midst of it all he started shouting, or laughing, or maybe it was a bit of both, but suddenly he went all-over rigid, hard lightning biting his bones as the taser hit, and then there was only darkness.

 

*

 

Dean lay naked on the floor, his hands pulled up behind his head and cuffed to the table leg. Cas crouched over him, smiling as he stroked slowly up the inside of his thighs, deliberately teasing him, never quite touching his cock, but coming so close – a brush of knuckle there, a stray finger there – that Dean's entire body throbbed with need.

'Please,' he begged. 'Please, Cas.'

But Cas refused, his smile all mischief and lust. 'You have to say the magic word.'

' _Please_ .' 

'Not that. The other one.' He was gleaming wet, the towel at his hips beginning to slip loose. 'Say it for me.' He bent forwards, kissing the crook of Dean's knee. 'Say it.' Another kiss, inching upwards.

Dean groaned. 'I don't – I don't know what –'

' _Say it_ .' His lips moved higher still. 'Say it, or I'll stop.'

He realised what was needed of him. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Cas.'

The smile turned sharp. 'You should be.'

'I am. I'm so sorry.'

'But not,' said Cas, his fingers toying gently with him, 'as sorry as you're going to be.'

He lowered his mouth, tongue licking up Dean's cock, and something started buzzing – no, was that music? Dean screwed his eyes shut, willing the distraction away, but suddenly Cas was gone, and he was awake in bed, panting between damp sheets – embarrassingly so; it was years since he'd had a wet dream – and his head hurt like it was hollow, and his phone, his goddamn  _phone_ was ringing by the bedside. 

Fumbling blindly, he grabbed the thing up to his ear, hit answer and roared, ' _WHAT?_ '

'Jeez, cranky much?' It took him a moment to place the voice: Anna. 'That's what I get for being concerned for your welfare?'

'My  _what?_ '

'Dean, it's nearly midday, and you're not open yet. And, you know, since I haven't seen the store shut on a weekday in the entire time you've been here, I figured I should at least make a courtesy call to see if you're alive. Which, apparently, you are,' she added, chagrined. 'Yay.'

Blearily, Dean sat up. 'Midday? It's midday?'

'Are you high? Yes, it's midday! Or, well, just about. What's up with you? Is it a public holiday? I mean, the bookshop's shut, too – did you guys hit the town last night or something?'

'Wait, go back.' Suddenly, Dean was wide awake. 'The bookshop's shut?'

'Yeah. So?' And then, excitedly, 'Wait, is  _that_ who you're hung up on? The bookshop guy?'

'I gotta go,' Dean said. He felt physically sick.

'Oh, come on! Don't leave me hanging –'

' _Anna_ !' He realised he was shouting, and forced himself to stop. 'Anna, I'm really glad you called, but I have to go. It's important. I'll call you later, OK?'

He hung up to the sound of her laughter.

Cas hadn't opened the shop. That wasn't right. The guy didn't take days off, and unlike Dean, he wasn't the type to go on an impromptu bender. Or maybe he was, in which case, Dean had clearly driven him to it. Or maybe he was just taking a personal day. It was possible.

But not likely.

Ignoring the protestations of his hungover body, Dean somehow managed to get up, strip the bed, put the sheets in the wash, dunk himself under a cold shower and get dressed without either falling down or throwing up. After that, his first impulse was to ring Cas, but realised, too late, that he'd never bothered to get his number.

Wolfing down two slices of cold pizza, he grabbed his things and went outside, knocking on Cas's door in an agony of anticipation. When, after a minute of solid banging, there was still no answer, Dean really started to panic. Reflexively, he tried the handle, and swore when it worked.

'Cas?' he called. He stepped inside, the eerie sense of deja-vu strong enough to raise goosebumps on his arms, but this time, Cas's bed was empty. In fact, it didn't even look slept in: the sheets were smooth and pristine, the bathroom unoccupied – hell, the whole place was so neat and empty, it was hard to see how anyone lived there at all.

Passing back through the kitchen, something on the benchtop caught Dean's eye. Feeling truly ill now, and not just because of the hangover, he stared at the trio of items laid out before him, either unwilling or unable to process the implication of their presence. Wherever Cas was, he didn't have his wallet, his phone or his keyring, and when you put that together with the unopened shop and his clear distress the night before –

Dean threw up in the sink, a cold sweat forming on his neck. He ran the tap, first washing the vomit away, then rinsing his mouth, and fought the urge to collapse on the floor. Something bad had happened to Cas; he knew it the way he'd once known his squad was about to be ambushed, the way he could still tell at a glance whether someone was armed or not. Something bad had happened to Cas, and it was all his fault – and that meant he had to fix it.

Moving on autopilot, Dean pocketed Cas's things, exited the flat, and went back into his own. Out of sheer habit, he went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then grabbed his phone, searched the web for the right number, and called the Monument police.

A young man answered; Dean barely heard his spiel about precincts and  _how-may-I-help-you_ , jumping on the first available silence to say, in a rush that damn near choked him, 'I'd like to report a missing person.'

'OK, sir. Can you give me the details, please?'

'It's my neighbour – his shop's next to mine, we live next to each other, and he hasn't opened up today. His place is unlocked, his keys and wallet are still there, but he's not – it's empty, and it's not like him – we had a fight last night, he ran out, and I don't –'

'Calm down, sir. It's all right. Just take a deep breath, and start at the beginning. What's his name?'

'It's Cas. Castiel Novak. He's, uh, he's in his late twenties, about five eleven, white, with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and he has these, these scars on his back, but he doesn't like people touching them.' He gulped. 'He was wearing, uh, a button-down shirt, white with a pale stripe, brown pants, and the last time I saw him was at 8pm last night.'

'All right, sir, thank you. And what's your name?'

'Dean Winchester.'

'And your relationship to Mr Novak is –?'

'We're friends,' said Dean. 'And neighbours. And look, I know he's an adult, but please, you gotta help me – this isn't like him, and –'

'Sir? Can you just hold on a minute, please?'

'What?' Dean blinked, confused by the man's sudden change in tone. 'Sure, yeah.'

There was a crackling noise – the receiver being pressed against something – undercut by the usual background noise of a busy police station. It brought up a buried sense memory from Dean's rookie year, of having to work the phones and patiently answer calls just like the one he was making now, the callers garbled and distressed, or angry, or scared, or sometimes just plain boring, droning on about the ring they'd lost, or whether their partner was cheating on them, or one of a hundred other things that might or might not have been relevant to an investigation. For a moment, he was lost in time; he could feel the weight of his uniform, the place where his heavy belt had sat – could feel, even, the impatient twitch of a pencil between his fingertips – and then it vanished, replaced by the sight of the kitchen wall as the call resumed.

'Mr Winchester, is it?' A different voice this time: older, brusque.

'Yeah, that's me.'

'I think your missing person might be a John Doe we've got in the cells.'

'He's  _what?_ ' Dean grabbed the wall. 'Is he all right? What happened?'

'As best we can make out, at sometime around 10pm last night, your friend – Mr Novak – was mugged in Southwall. He took a bit of a kicking, but he was able to get himself to a nearby bar and ask for help. The owner called us, but just before we arrived, Mr Novak underwent a sort of violent episode; smashed the TV up real good. I'm yet to find a witness who can say what set him off, but clearly something did, because by the time we got there, he was screaming blue murder. Personally, I'm inclined to think he wasn't quite in his right mind. He took a few knocks to the head in the mugging; nothing serious, but enough to leave you disoriented. We had to arrest him over the property damage, but I've been in touch with the bar owner as of this morning, and he says he won't press charges provided what's broke gets paid for.' He huffed. 'I would've let him go before now, if only he'd told us his damn name, but maybe now you can come talk some sense into him.'

'Yeah,' said Dean. 'Of course. I'll be right there.'

He confirmed the stationhouse address and hung up. His skin prickled, any relief at knowing Cas was alive subsumed beneath a greasy layer of worry, guilt and disbelief.

Hurrying outside, Dean leapt in the Impala, revved the engine and sped across Monument to the Southwall station, cursing at every red light, every slow driver, every traffic law that kept him from going directly to Cas. By the time he pulled up outside, he'd worked himself into such a state of distress, he could barely turn the key in the lock. What if Cas didn't want to see him? What if he was really hurt?

Pushing through the station doors, Dean went straight to the front desk and said, 'I'm here to pick up Castiel Novak.'

The duty sergeant snorted. 'Gotta identify him first. Come through.'

The station layout wasn't too different to what Dean remembered, but any sense of nostalgia vanished the moment they reached the cells. Cas sat alone on the edge of a bunk, head down, his fingers laced across the back of his neck. His shirt was stained with old blood, and when he looked up at their approach, the right side of his face was swollen with bruises, a piece of tape stuck to a nasty cut over one eye. Dean experienced a moment of pure fury, but swallowed it down as Cas, his good eye going wide with shock, said, 'Dean?'

'Oh god, Cas.' And then, to the sergeant, 'That's him, all right? Jesus, just let him out!'

The officer shot Dean an odd look, but complied all the same. Cas stood and winced, clutching his ribs. He shuffled forwards, looking at Dean like he half expected him to vanish.

'You're here,' said Cas, wonderingly, and just at that moment, Dean didn't give a shit what anyone else thought of him, or even what Cas thought of him: he rushed forward, cupped Cas's neck in his hands, and kissed him, once on the lips and once on the forehead, eyes squeezed shut as tears seeped out the edges.

'Dammit, Cas, don't you  _ever_ do that again,' he said, voice unexpectedly rough. 'I thought you were dead, OK? I thought you were  _dead_ .'

Beside him, someone coughed meaningfully. Dean leapt back, flustered, and found himself face to face with a different officer.

'Mr Winchester, I take it. The  _neighbour_ .' His mouth twisted sardonically, but there was no sting in his tone. He glanced to Cas, brows raised. 'And Mr Novak! Nice to put a name to the face.'

'Hello,' said Cas, awkwardly.

'Hello indeed.' Briskly, he turned back to Dean. 'Right. Paperwork! Come with me, both of you. Let's get this over with.'

'Sure,' said Dean, and then, to Cas, 'Can you walk OK?'

Cas licked his lips. 'I could use some help,' he admitted.

Ignoring the sergeant's smirk, Dean gently looped an arm around Cas's back, supporting him. 'Is this all right?' he asked.

'Fine,' Cas murmured. He sagged against him, utterly worn out. 'Let's go.'

 

*

 

The paperwork passed in a blur. Dean dealt with most of it, though Cas had to sign a few things, as well as promising to come back and give a statement about his mugging in the next day or so. He nodded, weary beyond belief, and when it was done, he let Dean lead him out to the Impala, shutting his eyes against the harsh sunlight. As though he were a child, Dean buckled his seatbelt for him.

'Cas?' he said. 'Are you here?'

He wasn't, but he made himself answer. 'Yeah. I'm here.' And then, because he was honestly confused on the point, 'How did you find me?'

Dean gave a shaky laugh and turned the key in the ignition. 'It wasn't hard. You were kind of conspicuous.'

Remembering the newscast, Cas shuddered.  _Not as much as I'm going to be._

'What?' said Dean, and only then did Cas realise he'd spoken out loud. 

'Nothing,' he mumbled.

Dean shot him an unreadable look, but mercifully didn't pursue the issue. They drove the rest of the way in silence, Cas with his head tipped back, Dean gripping the wheel like he wanted to choke it. They pulled up in front of the record store, and Cas just sat there, unable to muster the energy needed to unclip his belt. Dean thought for a moment, then said, 'Wait here.'

'Sure,' said Cas, nonplussed, and watched as Dean went across the road to Well Bread. It was hard to see with the glare in his eyes, but he thought he saw Dean talking to the barista, pointing out at the car with one hand. The exchange lasted a few minutes, and when Dean returned, he was carrying a large brown bag.

'All right, Cinderella,' he said, opening Cas's door. 'Time to go home.'

Somehow, Cas managed to exit the car without help, though he leaned on Dean the whole way back to his flat, unable to manage the stairs alone.

'Now,' Dean murmured, leading him inside, 'I know you're probably pissed at me, and that's fine – you have every right to be. But you shouldn't be alone right now, so unless there's someone else I can call to come look after you, I'm staying. OK?' His eyes flicked over Cas's face, as though searching for something. 'Is there a call I should make?'

'No.' He wanted to disappear, to curl in on himself until everything stopped. 'No, there's no one.'

'No one _else_ , you mean,' said Dean.

'What?'

'No one else.' And then, more gently, 'There's still me, Cas. I'm not going anywhere.'

Cas opened his mouth, but no words came out. If Dean noticed this, however, he gave no sign, just herded Cas through to the bedroom, sat him down on the edge of the mattress, and knelt, their respective postures an echo of what they'd been the night before. Cas sat limply, staring at his hands. One of his palms was scuffed, the injury covered over with a bit of gauze and plaster, and without really meaning to, he peeled it off, revealing a series of half-healed scrapes that stung against the air.

Dean picked up the discarded gauze and dropped it on the floor. 'Cas, you need to get cleaned up. I'm going to take your shirt off, OK? It's all bloody.'

'OK,' said Cas.

Slowly, Dean undid his buttons, starting with the lowest. Cas watched his face, a steady warmth creeping up his neck as Dean's sweet frown of concentration, paired with the way he absently bit his bottom lip, reminded him that he wasn't made of stone, after all. He felt his breathing quicken, and when Dean met his gaze, he realised the change hadn't gone unnoticed.

As the last button came free, Dean swallowed audibly. 'There,' he said, slipping his thumbs beneath the collar, lifting the fabric up and back, until it passed over Cas's shoulders. 'All clear.'

The shirt pooled behind him. One slow arm at a time, Cas freed himself from the sleeves, and then it really was done, exposing the mass of ugly bruises covering his left side.

'Son of a bitch,' Dean growled. 'Are you –?'

'Nothing's broken. It hurts to move, but that's it.'

'I shouldn't have let you go.' The vehemence in his tone was all the more shocking for being self-directed. 'Last night, I should've come after you, I should've made sure that you were all right.'

'This isn't your fault,' said Cas, puzzled. 'Why would you even think that?'

Dean looked pained. 'Because I lied to you. I chased you away.'

'You didn't chase me anywhere. Yes, I ran, but it wasn't from you. It's me, the same as it's always been. It's all I know how to do.'

Dean blinked. 'I don't understand.'

'Have you –' Cas started, then stopped. Oh, he didn't want to say this, but it was all catching up to him, and if he didn't find the courage now, then he never would; and besides which, Dean deserved the truth. 'Have you seen the news today?'

'What?' The question surprised him. 'No, I haven't. Why?'

Cas forced himself to answer. 'There's, ah, there's this thing, in Nevada. A religious compound, run by the Fellowship of the Righteous Angels. The police are raiding it.' He forced himself to look at Dean. 'I saw it on TV last night. In the bar. Before I had my... episode.'

He stopped, expecting an interruption that never came. Dean just looked at him, waiting for Cas to continue, and when he finally did, the words poured out like water.

'I don't know who my father is. Whenever I used to ask, my mother just said we were all god's children, that nothing else mattered. She did her best, I think, at least to begin with. Or maybe she didn't, I don't know. I was little. But we were always poor, and she always just wanted things to be easy, wanted there to be some simple, comforting answer when the power was being shut off, or the shelter was full, or when she lost her job. I tried to help, but I was a kid, I couldn't do anything. And when she met Aaron, it made her so happy. He told her that god had spoken to him, that we all just needed to follow his orders, and together, we could build a new world, and she believed it, because it made everything so much easier. And I think... I think, looking back, he really did care about her. She wasn't rich, or influential; he wasn't trying to scam her into going, because we had nothing he could've wanted. He just liked her, and she went with him, and so I went, too.

'He'd bought this land in the desert, way past everything. The nearest town was this tiny place called Joseph, and Aaron made a big deal over that, how it was a sign that Joseph of Arimathea had blessed his mission. He built a commune there, us and a bunch of other people – a couple of families, some teenage runaways, and a few true believers, all out in the Mojave because they trusted Aaron, because he was their prophet, and because, I guess, we were all so screwed up, it made perfect sense to go live in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of strangers and try to pray to angels. I was eleven when it started, and every weekend, Aaron would drive into Joseph for supplies, with me along for the ride. I don't know why he took me, and not one of the other kids. Maybe because he loved my mother, or maybe because I wanted to go. Either way, he always took me. And every time, I'd always go to the same place.

'There wasn't much in Joseph, but there was a bookshop. This crazy, ramshackle place, dusty and dirty and full of cobwebs, but to me, it was paradise. And the guy who ran it, John Aveline, well, once he figured out I was the only person for miles around who'd talk to him about books, we just became friends. I don't think he ever sold me a single book; he'd just give me stuff he thought I'd like, and sometimes I brought books back to him, but some I got to keep, and they were – they were the only things I had that mattered.

'But the commune was really struggling: we were meant to be self-sufficient, but nothing would grow, the water was brown, and wherever Aaron was getting his money from, there just wasn't enough of it to keep the place going. So he got desperate, started looking for backers, for believers, someone to bankroll the new Jerusalem.' Cas laughed, bitterly. 'What he found was Brother Tiberius. At least, that's what he called himself – I never knew his real name before last night, when the newsreader said it. Didn't know where he was from, either. His accent was a bit Texas, but mostly it was from all over, and it changed depending on who he was talking to, or what he was saying. Chameleon voice, chameleon man. And Aaron trusted him.

'It was little things, at first. New faces, new equipment. More structure to the day, because god loves order. Then he started talking about preparedness, how god and his angels wanted us to be ready, because the world was a terrible, heathen place, and as the guardians of the new Jerusalem, we had to know how to defend ourselves. We stopped watching TV, because it was a poisonous influence, and then even having a radio became a privilege. More new faces, and these ones had guns. Aaron still kept driving into town each week, but he had to fight to take me with him. Brother Tiberius didn't like it; didn't like me reading, either, but he needed folks in Joseph to trust him, too, and John made it clear he wanted to keep an eye on me, that he'd make trouble for the Fellowship if I suddenly fell off the radar.

'Then one night, something happened. I woke up because everyone was shouting. There were shots fired, I think, and men telling us all to go back to bed, and the next morning, Aaron was gone. And my mother... I thought she'd be worried, I thought she'd want for us to leave, too. But I hadn't realised how much Brother Tiberius had been talking to her, talking her round. In the end, she just wanted things to be easy, same as ever, and Aaron had been good to her, but he'd let the commune get difficult when it was meant to be salvation, and Brother Tiberius made things simple again. For her, anyway.'

Cas's chest tightened. 'I've never talked about it. I don't think I even know  _how_ to talk about it. But a lot of bad things happened after that, and when I was seventeen, I couldn't take it any more. I ran away. John helped me get out, get set up somewhere new. I started studying again. I worked my way through community college, and I tried, I tried so hard to be normal, despite everything. I even tried to forget. But I still... it's like I'm still there, somehow. Still in the Confessional. Because I know – I've always known – I don't deserve forgiveness for what I did. Not from me, and not from anyone else, either. Especially not from you.'

'Forgiveness?' Dean reached out, touching Cas's good cheek with his fingertips. 'Cas, there's nothing to forgive. Hell, if anything, I'd say you deserve a medal. You didn't do anything wrong. You got out, that's all.'

'But I  _left_ them!' It came out a sob, and suddenly, tears were running down his face. 'I left my family there to rot. I left them with  _him,_ even knowing what he was, what he was capable of. And I never looked back. I never looked for them, not even once, and now – now the whole place is under siege, and I don't know if I'm going to see their faces on the news, if they're hurt, if they're going to end up in prison. They're already calling it a new Waco, and if god is real, then I'm going to hell, because part of me wants them all to be dead already, just so I don't – so I don't have to –'

Dean pulled him into his arms, and Cas collapsed against him, crying so hard it hurt his ribs, but that was only right; he deserved to hurt. He felt Dean cradle his head, and the cautious way his other arm moved across his back, so careful of his scars.

'You listen to me,' said Dean, his voice thick with emotion. 'You don't need forgiveness, because there's nothing to forgive, but all the same, and just so you can hear it out loud, I forgive you, Cas. Whatever you did to survive, to keep yourself safe, I forgive you. OK? And if god exists, he forgives you, too, because if he doesn't, he's not worth praying to.'

Cas felt something inside him break. 'He burned my books,' he whispered. 'Two days after Aaron left, he burned my books, but he didn't get them all. Not at first. I hid some, tried to read in secret. But someone saw. Someone told, and he burned them, too. It was a transgression, he said. I had to atone. So he locked me in the Confessional. It was so hot, I thought I was going to die, but after he let me out, I went right back to John Aveline and asked for more. So Brother Tiberius got... creative, with his punishments. He turned it into a ritual. Oh, god.' He was shaking again, but Dean just held him, warm and real and solid.

'He did this to you,' Dean said. It wasn't a question. 'He gave you the scars.'

'Yes.'

'How long?' Gentle hands, stroking his hair. 'How long before you ran, after he took over?'

'Five years.' Cas drew a shuddering breath. He had to say it; had to get the worst of it out, so Dean would understand the full horror of what he'd done. 'I would've run sooner, but my mother... Tiberius wanted all the women there to have children. Said it was their duty, that we needed sons and daughters raised in the faith, uncorrupted by life outside. He could've had any one of them for himself, and probably did. But he started with her.' He dropped his head, the shame so deep, it was like he had a hole where his heart should be. 'I have... that I know of, I have two half-siblings. Sisters. Probably more by now, if our mother isn't dead. They were so little, so sweet. I just wanted them to be safe. And Tiberius, he told me, during our  _sessions_ –' he grit his teeth on the word, '– what would happen to them, if I ran. If I gave him any reason to think that they were tainted, too.'

'Jesus,' Dean whispered. But still, he kept hold of him. Didn't even flinch.

Cas felt empty, hollowed out by twelve years' worth of guilt and grief. 'I left them there. I should've stayed. I should've gotten them out. I should've  _tried_ . But I'm a coward, Dean. I ran, and I did  _nothing_ . I could've gone to the police about Tiberius, or told the FBI. But I was too afraid. I'm still afraid.' He lifted his head and met Dean's gaze, expecting to see hatred, disgust – anything but sympathy. 'You can't forgive me,' he said, voice trembling. 'You can't possibly.'

'I can,' said Dean. 'I do. I meant what I said, Cas. It's not your fault. It was never your fault.' And just like he'd done at the Southwall cells, he leaned in and kissed his forehead.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Dean put Cas to bed with a dose of painkillers and a promise to be there when he woke up. He sat on the floor by the bedside, holding his hand for the three minutes it took Cas to pass into deep sleep, then watched him for another five, as much to try and steady himself as to make sure he was all right. He'd known the truth would be bad, but he hadn't really understood  _how_ bad until now. The idea that Cas had been carrying this around his entire adult life, punishing himself for failing to fix an impossible situation – god, and to think Dean had ever teased him for being uptight, or liking quietude, or wanting to be normal! For a moment, he felt furious at the whole damn world, and especially at himself, for not having seen it earlier. So much that was odd about Cas now made a sick sort of sense: why his apartment was so bare, the way he flinched and hunched whenever he missed a reference, the strange gaps in his knowledge. He'd escaped the Fellowship, but for a price, and part of him seemed determined to pay it forever.

Careful not to wake him, Dean rose and headed into the kitchen. Returning Cas's things to the bench, he opened the bag of goodies he'd bought at Well Bread and transferred most of them to the fridge, making a mental note to call Anna sooner rather than later. He also thought he should maybe buy her some chocolate or a gift or something, but didn't know what the protocol was. How exactly did you thank your barista for indirectly letting you know your almost-boyfriend had spent the night in jail? Not even Hallmark had a card for that.

He was just pulling out his phone to look up the Nevada situation – like Cas had said, forewarned was forearmed – when it rang, the noise so jarring, he almost dropped it.

'Shit!' He didn't recognise the number, which meant it was either Crowley or the cops. He took a deep breath and answered. 'Hello?'

'Dean? It's Sam.'

'Sammy? What the hell! You took a loan from Crowley? What happened to asking me first, huh? Hell, what happened to giving me a simple heads up, and since when does it take you this long to return a damn phone call?'

'What the hell are you talking about, Dean? What loan?' Sam sounded genuinely perplexed. 'I haven't done anything with Crowley. You really think I'm that stupid?'

'Oh, right, of course you're not. Then why the hell is he hanging around my store, telling me all about how you couldn't afford your tuition this semester, but that he agreed to help you out provided I did him a favour?'

'He did  _what_ ?'

'You heard me.'

'Seriously, Dean, I have no idea what he's talking about. I promise you, I haven't seen Crowley, and I sure as hell don't need any money. And in case you hadn't noticed, I'm on break right now. I'm not even in California.'

'You're not?'

'No. I'm staying with Jess and her family out in Oregon. Have been for the past week.'

'If that's the case, then why are you ducking my calls?'

'I'm not!' said Sam, exasperated. 'I just got a new phone, is all – I left the old one back at Stanford, but my roommate called to let me know you were leaving messages. This is the first chance I've had to ring you back.'

'You got a new number and didn't tell me?'

'It's a new phone, Dean, not a change of address, and frankly, we don't talk so often that I figured it for a priority!'

'OK, OK!' said Dean, recognising Sam's quit-persecuting-me tone from long, fraternal experience. 'I'm sorry, all right? I didn't mean to jump down your throat. Well, I mean, I kind of did, but that was because I thought you'd left me holding the bag for Crowley.'

'Well, I didn't,' said Sam, still cross, but Dean could hear he was calming down. 'So, what – Crowley's just out and out lying now?'

'Apparently so,' said Dean, frowning. An unpleasant thought occurred to him. 'Sammy, how long have you and Jess been planning this trip?'

'About a month, I guess.'

'Right, of course. And when did you get the new phone?'

'About a week ago. Why?'

Dean shut his eyes. 'That son of a bitch. He set me up.'

'How do you figure that?'

'He's been watching you, Sam, the same as he's been watching me! He knew I'd try to check in with you, so he made sure that when I rang, you wouldn't be there to answer.'

Sam exhaled. 'I dunno, Dean. That sounds pretty far fetched. I mean, the trip was planned, sure, but the phone? And what would Crowley want with you, anyway? I thought you guys were quits.'

'So did I, but here we are.' He ran a hand down his face. 'Look, thanks for calling, OK? I'm sorry I interrupted your trip, or whatever. You and Jess have a good time.'

'It's fine, Dean. We will. Talk later, OK?'

'OK. Bye.'

He hung up, stared at the phone, then saved Sam's new number. What the fuck was Crowley playing at? Even with Sam on holiday, he must've known Dean would figure it out eventually, so why bother lying in the first place? And, more worryingly, what was so important that he'd flown all the way from California to Monument for the apparent sole purpose of having Dean play bodyguard to a business associate? The whole thing stank, and Dean already had enough on his plate without Crowley complicating things.

He sighed, and sat, and called Anna before worry could push the task out of mind.

The barista picked up on the fifth ring, the background heavy with kitchen sounds.

'Dean! Good timing. I'm on my break. I've got five minutes to spare, so: spill!'

Unable to help himself, Dean laughed. 'One day of friendship, and we're already spilling? I think we're moving too fast.'

'Oh, like you're so old-fashioned.' He could hear the grin in her voice. 'And anyway, quit changing the subject. What the hell's going on with you with you and bookshop-boy?'

'His name's Castiel,' said Dean, trying to sound less defensive than he felt, 'and the short version is, he went for a walk in Southwall last night and got himself mugged. He didn't have his phone on him and he was pretty messed up, so I had to go collect him.'

'Uh  _huh_ . Right. Your neighbourly concern is so touching, I think I might cry. And how, pray tell, did you know he was in trouble just from my saying the shop was shut?'

'Y'know, most men don't like observant women. It's a real turn-off. Makes us feel like we might actually have to improve ourselves, straighten up and fly right.'

'So  _that's_ where I've been going wrong.' She laughed, then sobered. 'Seriously though, is he OK? I couldn't see much when you came in, but he still looked pretty bad.'

'He'll be all right,' said Dean, a lump in his throat.  _God, I hope so._ 'He's resting.'

A brief pause. 'You know, if you're going to take more time off from work to look after him, I could watch the store for you.'

That was unexpected. 'You angling for a job?'

'Hey, I'm just saying, I've done time in retail. I can work a register. Plus, the boss just cut my hours, and I've got rent to pay.'

'This is why you befriended me? I feel used.'

'Oh, you do not.' She hesitated. 'Do you?'

'I'll get over it. And besides,' he added, 'it's not like I don't owe you one. You free tomorrow?'

'As a bird, yeah.'

'Well, off the top of my head, I don't know what I can pay you – I'm doing OK, but I'm not exactly swimming in cash – but I'll see how Cas is and give you a call in the morning. That all right?'

'Fine by me,' said Anna. 'And I was serious about the resume. Text me your email address and I'll send it through.'

'Sure thing.' Part of him wanted to hang up, but he liked Anna, and felt he ought to do something to show it other than just react to her interest. 'So, you've grilled me about my love life. Any word on yours?'

The question seemed to please her. 'Oh, just the usual. I might have drunk dialled him last night and embarrassed myself completely, but I can't text him to ask, because then I'll seem even more like a stalker than I already am. Not that I actually  _am_ a stalker – god, am I the single most awkward human being on the planet? Don't answer that,' she added quickly.

'Hey, your secret's safe with me.'

She chuckled, then swore. 'Damn, I gotta go. I think someone just broke the microwave,  _again_ . Talk later!' 

'Bye,' said Dean, but she'd already hung up.

He set the phone down, then helped himself to one of the Well Bread pastries. He'd been so preoccupied with Cas, he'd almost managed to forget being hungover, but now it came back to him with a vengeance: a frustrating reminder that, personal problems or not, he could no longer drink with the staunch impunity of a twenty-year-old. The pastry went some way towards helping, but what he really wanted to do was lie down in front of the TV. Cas had one, thankfully – he'd allowed himself that much luxury – but his lounge was like a medieval punishment. No matter how Dean sat on it, the damn thing refused to be comfortable, and in the end, he just slumped on the floor and used it as a backrest.

Finding the remote, he turned the volume down and channel-surfed until he hit CNN – where, sure enough, the botched raid on the Fellowship of the Righteous Angels compound was still the top story. Nervously, he glanced in the direction of Cas's bedroom; he didn't want to risk waking him, but if he was going to be any help, he needed to understand. When, after minute, Cas remained dormant, he turned the volume up a squeak and settled in to watch.

The whole ugly business made for grim viewing. The file photo of Brother Tiberius, aka Father Martin Bruckner, showed a staring, heavyset white man somewhere in his early fifties, smirking into the camera like he didn't care who knew he was a criminal. Seeing it, Dean experienced a powerful desire to commit grievous bodily harm. This was the man who'd scarred Cas, and when the broadcast cut live to a reporter at the scene, Dean found himself hoping for an announcement that Bruckner had just died in the crossfire, preferably after having bled out in excruciating pain. Instead, he learned that the militant members of the Fellowship had issued an ambiguous but menacingly worded ultimatum to police: either leave them alone 'to do god's work', or 'suffer the wrath of his angels', whatever that meant. Nothing good, clearly. The camera panned to a police barricade, and behind it, in the distance, Dean could just see the leading edge of a high wire fence, surrounded by desert dust.

He turned the TV off, unable to watch any more. Pushing himself to his feet, he was about to go and check on Cas when the sound of muffled knocking reached him through the wall. It took him a moment to realise where it was coming from: someone was at  _his_ front door, and just from the pattern of beats, he knew exactly who it was.

Taking a moment to compose himself, Dean adopted his best blank expression and stepped out onto the landing. Sure enough, there was Crowley, but any satisfaction he felt at having surprised the loan shark vanished at the oily smile which oozed across his face.

'Well well,' said Crowley, his gaze flicking briefly into Cas's flat and back again. 'Spending a little quality time with the missus, are we?'

Dean crossed his arms. 'Funny thing. I spoke to Sam a while ago, and according to him, he hasn't borrowed jack from you. Care to explain that to me, Crowley?'

Almost imperceptibly, Crowley paled. 'Sure,' he said. 'Your brother's a liar in training – sorry,  _lawyer_ in training – and wants to keep his eye in.' And then, when Dean didn't laugh, he waved a hand and sighed. 'Oh, all right. You got me. But you have to admit, it was a pretty good story.'

'Give me one good reason why I shouldn't break you in half.'

'I'll do better than that; I'll give you two good reasons.' He held up a finger. 'One, because if you don't owe me a favour, then that means I owe you, see? And frankly, I'd have thought you could use all the help you can get, these hard economic times being what they are. And two –' another finger, '– because I am, at present, the only thing standing between you and a very angry, very unpleasant, very  _creative_ woman with an axe to grind, and I guarantee, this is not a situation in which you want to dispense with the middle-man.'

'Talk,' Dean growled. 'Fast. And don't lie to me, Crowley.'

'As you wish.' He rocked on his heels, and for the first time, Dean had the sense he was genuinely unhappy about something. 'What I told you about my business associate needing some trusted security for a soiree next week, that was gospel. The man's an old mate of mine, name of Teddy Brimmond, and like I said, he's currently a man down. What I may have neglected to mention is the reason for this sudden job opening: namely, that Teddy's ex chief of security was rather tragically revealed to be in the pay of his main competitor, a bloodthirsty wench called Ruby Blue. Now, as it so happens, Ms Blue has me in something of a stranglehold at present – a temporary inconvenience, I assure you – and is, as such, in a position to make demands of me that I'm unable to refuse, if you take my meaning. And what she wants is you, Dean Winchester, stood by Teddy's side come Friday week.'

Oh, this was bad. This was very bad. 'And why,' said Dean, trying to keep his voice even, 'does this, uh,  _Ruby Blue_ want me? Come to that, how does she even know I exist?'

Crowley tugged at his cufflinks. 'Look, Dean, I like you. I like Teddy too, for that matter. The man has very deep pockets and no instinct for poker, not to mention a drinks cabinet so well stocked it would make the angels weep. But you know who I like even better?  _Me_ . So when a canny virago comes sweeping into my sanctum sanctorum, puts my fruit and veg in a vice and asks me, oh so sweetly, who I have on the ground in Monument, I don't mess about with maybes and whyfors. '

'In other words, you gave her my name.'

'In other words, I gave her a choice of several names, and yours was the one she picked. As to why – well. Maybe she just likes the cut of your pretty, chiselled features, I don't know. Or _maybe_ ,' and here he lowered his voice, 'I suggested she steer clear of you in such a way as to guarantee she wouldn't. She's planning something, and given her beef with Teddy, my suspicion is, it doesn't bode well for his living a long life, and while I'm happy to go along to get along, I do have my limits, and being made to look fatally incompetent is beyond them.'

'Wait. Just wait a minute.' Dean rubbed his temples, trying to get it all in order. 'Let me see if I've got this straight. You're Teddy's friend, but Ruby wants you to hire me to stand back while someone on her payroll kills him, so that all your little criminal buddies think you dropped the ball by giving him my name.'

'Quite,' said Crowley.

'But what you  _actually_ want me to do,' said Dean, 'is keep whoever Ruby's hired from killing Teddy, thereby putting me squarely in her crosshairs while you stay squeaky clean.'

'That's about the size of it, yes,' said Crowley, 'but in the event that you do the job I'm hiring you for – which is to say, the opposite of what Ruby wants me to hire you for – I highly doubt she'll come after you.'

'Oh? And why's that?'

' _Because_ ,' said Crowley, with all the heavy patience of someone addressing a toddler, 'you're not meant to know her side of the bargain. So far as she knows, all  _you_ know is that you're meant to keep Teddy breathing. Any pushback will be directed squarely at me, for the crime of having furnished her with a competent employee, instead of the incompetent one she thinks she's getting.' 

At the look on Dean's face, he heaved an exasperated sigh. 'Look, it's perfectly simple. Ruby wants Teddy dead, and she wants it to look like my fault. But because she underestimates me, she doesn't know that  _I_ know what her game is. She's told me she wants someone who'll report back to her on Teddy's doings just like the last bloke did, which  _I_ , because I'm not a complete fool, have recognised as a not-so-cunning lie. As such, I have, via various blandishments and circumlocutions, induced her to pick you, Dean Winchester, as her catspaw of choice, while simultaneously giving her the distinct impression that you're the last person I want anywhere near this job. And thus, the stage is set: Ruby will try to kill Teddy, you will surprise everyone, including and especially me, with an unexpected display of bravado, Teddy will live, and Ruby will suspect – but not be able to prove – that I've pulled one over on her, thereby giving me precious time with which to regroup and launch a counter-offensive. There. Is that clear enough for now, or should I draw you a diagram?'

Dean glared at him. 'You weren't going to tell me any of this, were you? You were just going to drop me in the drink and see if I swam.'

Crowley tutted. 'Darling.  _Please_ . I have a high enough opinion of your abilities that I felt confident you'd get the job done, even without a tip-off.'

'I'm flattered, really. Now, I'll ask you again, and this time, cut the crap: why the fuck would I want to get involved with any of this?'

'Because it's too late not to,' said Crowley, dark eyes glittering. 'Ruby Blue has your name, weight and shoe size by now, and a great deal else besides. You're part of her game plan, Dean, and she's not the sort of woman who takes kindly to pawns who try and walk off the board. I promised her your cooperation, and when I make a promise, I keep it. So, yes, I tried a little deception to get you on board – so what? My hands were tied. But if you make me look the fool to her –' and here he stepped forward, menacing, '– then your bookish, blue-eyed boy in there will be the one to suffer for it. Do I make myself clear?'

For a moment, Crowley's face took on the likeness of Bruckner's, and Dean saw red. Grabbing Crowley by the throat, he bulled him up against the railing, shoving him so far back that he was in serious danger of tipping over. Crowley squeaked, flailing in his grasp, heels kicking desperately for purchase.

'If you hurt Cas,' Dean snarled, 'hell, if you so much as come within a mile radius of this house again without my express permission, then I swear to any god that's listening, Crowley,  _I will end you_ . Do you hear me? I won't even hesitate. I will find you, skin you, and I will cut out your fucking heart with butter knife. Understand?'

'Aghrb drb fhrrr!' said Crowley, turning red in the face.

'What was that?' Dean eased his grip a little.

'Doesn't – have – to be like that!' Crowley choked out the words. 'Owe you! I'll owe you one!' He gasped, strangling as Dean squeezed again. 'Promise! Whatever happens. Swear!'

Almost, Dean was minded to let him fall on principle. It wasn't that big a drop; he'd probably just break his legs. But then he remembered the Fellowship of the Righteous Angels, and felt the first stirrings of a very bad but very tempting idea. Sometimes, it took a rat to catch a rat, and from the look of things, the Nevada PD wasn't exactly doing a bang-up job at bringing Brother Tiberius to justice. Whichever way he looked at it, he was already snookered on the job front, but if he could wring an advantage out of this mess – if he could use Crowley to try and help Cas – then maybe it would be worth it.

Dean let Crowley twist a moment longer, then relaxed, hauling him back to safety. As Crowley coughed and spluttered, Dean did some quick mental arithmetic. He wanted to be able to pay Anna a decent wage, and if that was something he could wring out of all this, too, then so much the better.

'I want to two grand up front,' he said, as the loan shark massaged his throat. 'Call it a booking fee. Another two if I end up in hospital, or if things get needlessly complicated – we'll call that hazard pay, deliverable whether or not Teddy lives.'

'Fair enough,' said Crowley, and from the look on his face, Dean knew he'd expected to have to pay up something.

'And,' he said, enjoying the way Crowley flinched, 'you'll still owe me a favour.'

'Of course.' He straightened, brushed down his suit, and held out a hand. 'We'll shake on it, eh? Like civilized people.'

'There's nothing civilized about you, Crowley,' said Dean, but he shook all the same.

'Then it's settled. I'll have the details to you by Tuesday, latest. But lay hands on me again,' said Crowley, tugging him close, 'and you  _will_ have a problem.'

Dean smiled sharply. 'Try something like this again,' he said, 'and so will you.'

 

*

 

Cas woke to the sound of poorly-muffled swearing, interspersed with bursts of noise from his old, staticky blender. He experienced a moment of panic at the realisation that someone was in his flat, followed by confusion as to why they were using his appliances; but then he remembered the cell, and Dean, and – everything. He lay still, a knot of emotion working its way up his throat. He still ached, and he had no idea what time it was, but he felt, if not strictly better, then at least less worse. Careful of his ribs, he managed to lever himself out of bed and slip across to the bathroom without Dean noticing. He took care of the most pressing concern, then stared at his face in the mirror, poking gingerly at his bruises. He looked terrible, but that was only –

_No._ He stopped the thought cold, surprised by his own boldness.  _I don't deserve this. Maybe I never did._

_Of course you do,_ the blank voice whispered, but it was weaker than usual, and the memory of Dean's forgiveness helped him push it aside. 

Even so, he when he headed out to the kitchen, he was a mess of apprehension. What if Dean was angry at him? What if he resented the loss of his day? On some level, Cas knew he was being irrational – even if Dean was in a bad mood, that didn't invalidate his forgiveness – but still, he couldn't help hunching his shoulders, as though by taking up less space, he could somehow minimise the impact of his presence.

He entered to a scene of domestic chaos. Something was bubbling on the stove, the bench was strewn with packaging and half-chopped vegetables, and he'd caught Dean in the act of physically shaking the blender, which seemed to be full of chicken. As he watched, the blender made a feeble croaking sound, and went still.

'Damn!' said Dean. 'C'mon, you stupid thing.'

Cas couldn't help it: he laughed.

Dean whirled around with a look on his face like he'd been caught shoplifting. 'Cas!' he said. His shirt was stained with greasy streaks, and there was a daub of what looked suspiciously like sauce on his forehead. 'I, uh... it's not what it looks like, I swear.'

'Really?' Cas raised an eyebrow. 'Because from here, it looks like you've broken my blender.'

Dean looked from Cas to the blender and back again. 'To the untrained eye, I can see how things might seem that way. But what I'm  _actually_ doing –' and here he paused, tipping the mangled chicken into the simmering pot, then flourishing the empty jug as though he'd performed a magic trick '– is making chicken soup.'

'Chicken soup,' said Cas.

'Yeah. What's wrong with that?' Dean tried to fold his arms to his chest, but forgot about the jug. Awkwardly, he set it down on the bench, dislodging a carrot in the process. It fell to the floor and rolled, and the two of them watched its trajectory with all the apparent interest of cats observing squeaky toy. Dean coughed and ducked his head, and Cas realised, with a burst of genuine astonishment, that his neighbour was actually  _embarrassed._ 'It's what you're meant to do, you know, when someone's laid up. You make chicken soup.'

'Have you –' Cas tried to think of a tactful way to phrase the question, and failed, '– ah, have you ever actually done this before? Made soup?'

'Well, no, not if you want to get technical about it.' Dean took a deep breath. 'I just figured, if anyone was worth the effort, it's you.'

Cas was dumbstruck. Ignoring his ribs, he walked right up to Dean and into his personal space, taking a moment to drink in his features. Dean matched his gaze, and Cas, with what felt like his first smile in weeks, leaned him back against the bench and kissed him, soft and slow and thorough. None of his injuries so much as registered; he slipped his arms around Dean's neck, deepening the kiss as Dean's hands came to rest lightly on his hips, and stayed like that for he didn't know how long, not giving so much as an inch. When they finally broke apart, he smiled again and used his thumb to daub the sauce off Dean's forehead.

'Huh,' he said, licking it clean. 'What is that? Salsa?'

'Yeah,' said Dean. 'I, uh. I may have improvised.'

'I didn't think I had any salsa.'

'You don't. I brought it over from my place. And the chicken, too.' Dean made a face. 'The vegetables were yours though, sorry. I woud've used mine, but it turns out, I didn't have any.'

'Why am I not surprised?'

Dean laughed. 'Oh, shut up.'

'Make me,' said Cas, and the delighted look on Dean's face in the seconds before he kissed him was priceless. This time, Cas slipped his hands under Dean's shirt, savouring the play of strong muscles up his back and sides, but as his touch grew more urgent, Dean moaned and pulled away. He was flushed, his eyes so bright they were almost feverish.

'What's wrong?' Cas asked, suddenly afraid he'd overstepped.

Dean gulped. 'God, nothing's wrong. I just don't want to hurt you, is all.' He raised a hand, two fingers ghosting his bruised face.

'You wont,' said Cas, relieved, and as if to prove it, he grabbed Dean's hand and lipped the knuckles. 'I promise.'

'If I get carried away –'

'I'll speak up.' Cas kissed his lips, a gentle pressure. 'Right now, though, what I really want –' he kissed his jaw, '– more than anything –' he bit his ear, '– is to feel clean.' He tilted his head onside and asked, in his most serious voice, 'Does that sound like something you'd help me with?'

The look that crossed Dean's face was ecstatic. 'God, yes,' he breathed.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Dean followed Cas through to the bathroom, so dazed with lust he could barely think straight. Though part of him still worried that this was too much, too soon as far as Cas's injuries were concerned, on some fundamental level, he also knew that trying to push the point would not only be condescending, but a sort of betrayal, as though he didn't trust Cas to know his own limits. And besides which, he wanted this so badly it was hard to breathe; pretending otherwise would have been impossible. Even bruised, Cas was beautiful, and as he shut the door and murmured, 'Take off your shirt,' Dean shivered and obeyed.

This time, when Cas undid his belt, there was no hesitation, no panic; he just let it drop with a murmured, 'Shoes next, I think.'

Dean complied, and when he straightened up again, Cas stepped in and kissed him lightly on the throat. Already hard, Dean reached down and undid Cas's pants, shuddering as he returned the favour. A slither of fabric, a half-step back, and just like that, they were both naked, pressing against each other. Dean gasped as Cas took hold of him, eyes closed with pleasure. He reached for him, too, but Cas intercepted him, tangling their fingers together.

'Not yet,' he murmured, smiling. Favouring Dean with a long, hard stroke, he let go altogether. 'Get in the shower.'

The water was cold at first, but somehow, that only aroused him more. Dean stood under the warming spray, watching as Cas withdrew small blue bottle of oil from the medicine cabinet. He must have looked surprised, because Cas said, slyly, 'I might have issues, but I was never a monk.' He stepped into the shower, and Dean was suddenly hypnotised as Cas uncapped the bottle, pouring the contents onto both their hands and setting it aside. And then they were kissing again, open-mouthed and eager. Cas pulled him close, his gleaming palms oiling a path across Dean's ass, hips, thighs, and then, finally –  _oh, god, yes_ – back to his cock again, slicking him under and around as he sucked his bottom lip.

Dean reached for him in turn, and this time, Cas didn't stop him, groaning softly as Dean sleeked oil and water up and down his shaft, across his hips, but always mindful of his back, of where the scars began. As Cas's hands moved from groin to flank to chest, pinching lightly at his nipples, Dean leaned in and kissed his shoulder, nipping the skin, his mouth moving steadily upwards, over collarbone and throat, up the curve of Cas's neck to his ear. He sucked the lobe, and as Cas ran a teasing, practised finger along his perineum, Dean gasped and whispered, 'Fuck me.'

In answer, Cas took hold of his wrists, pulling Dean's arms out and up, until they were pinned above his head, his back to the shower wall. Cas kissed him, shifting his grip until only one hand held Dean in place, the other sliding down to gently slip his foreskin back and forth. Dean moaned low in his throat and said again, more urgently, 'Fuck me.' And then, because it had to be said, 'I'm safe. I mean, I –'

'I know what you meant,' said Cas. 'I am, too. But if you want, I can get a –'

'No. Please.' He tipped his head back, quivering against Cas's grip. He looked into those fathomless blue eyes, and said, 'I want to feel you. All of you.'

Cas smiled hungrily, his bruises somehow serving to make him look wicked rather than weak.  _Oh, god. He's anything but weak._ 'Ask me again,' he said, so close to Dean's ear that the rush of breath sent stars shooting through him, neck to nethers.

'Fuck me,' Dean panted.

Cas's reply was a gentle, teasing bite; he let his wrists go, dropping his hand to Dean's clavicle. 'Turn around,' he murmured, and as Dean obeyed, Cas let his hand move with him, fingers tracing down his spine to curve against his hip. Dean braced his palms on the tiles, shuddering as Cas kissed his back, first one, then two slick fingers slipping inside him. Every nerve was on fire, every inch of oil-slicked skin screaming to be touched, fucked, stroked, and as Cas finally withdrew his hand and guided his cock in, Dean shut his eyes and groaned. He pushed back against the hard heat, savouring the way Cas gripping his hips and  _held_ . 

'Now,' Cas said, the breathless catch in his voice a turn-on all its own, 'we're going to take this slow. Nice and slow.' And to prove his point, he pulled back steadily, almost all the way out, then thrust in again with leisurely control. And again. And again. It was like nothing Dean had ever experienced, a pleasure so tormentingly exquisite, it was almost agony. He pushed his legs apart, encouraging Cas deeper, moaning when it worked, but still, Cas refused to go quickly, and even though some distant, rational part of Dean whispered that maybe he couldn't speed up without hurting himself, the rest of him didn't care. Legs and arms trembling, muscles tense as he braced against his building climax, Dean began to beg, a mumbled prayer that grew steadily louder the longer it went ignored.

'Oh god Cas please please just fuck me Cas please please please, oh, fuck –' The words caught in his throat, and Cas growled, ' _Wait_ ,' but still didn't quicken his pace, though his breath was rapid, shallow. Dean was seeing stars, so close to release he was almost sobbing, pleading for Cas to  _do it, just do it_ , and all at once, Cas's control was gone; his rhythm changed, and he fucked him deep and fast, a flurry of thrusts as he came, and Dean followed almost instantly, his orgasm so overwhelming that he half blacked out. Trembling, he came back to himself with Cas's body pressed to his back, arms wrapped around his waist, and just at that moment, he couldn't have said which of them was supporting the other, only that they were both spent and shaking, breathing steam as the shower poured down around them.

Boneless, Dean turned in the circle of Cas's arms and held him, panting. Cas shut his eyes and nuzzled his head against Dean's neck.

'That was,' he said. 'That was.'

'Yes,' said Dean, dazedly. He lifted a hand to Cas's hair, fingers tangling in the wet, dark locks as his thumb caressed his neck. His pulse thundered; everywhere ached, his muscles still spasming in the aftershock of his climax. Despite the shower's best efforts, he was sticky with oil and salt and semen, and after a moment, remembering Cas's original overture about getting clean, he grabbed a bar of soap from a dish on the wall and started running it over Cas's arms and shoulders, working up a lather.

Cas lifted his head, and for a split second, he looked so vulnerable as to seem almost raw. 'My back,' he whispered. 'You can – would you –?'

Dean kissed him as gently as he knew how, letting his soapy fingers work steadily backwards, shoulder to spine, as Cas resettled his head on his chest. The worst scars were soft, raised ridges, the others so old and faint that, if Dean hadn't already known they were there, he wouldn't have guessed their presence. Once or twice, Cas tensed, and every time, Dean withdrew his hands to safer territory, not resuming until Cas said, 'It's all right,' or 'I'm OK. Keep going.'

By the time he reached his lower back, the water was starting to run cool. Cas straightened and chuckled. 'We should probably hurry. Here.' He pulled back a little, and held out his hand for the soap. Quickly washing himself, he did the same for Dean, and even spent as he was, the feel of Cas's clever fingers retracing their steps was enough to get him hard again. Cas was clearly appreciative, and as the last suds spiralled down the drain, he turned off the taps and stepped out.

'Um,' he said, his brow suddenly furrowed.

Dean paused on the threshold. 'What?'

'I've only got one towel.'

'That's all right,' said Dean. 'I don't mind sharing.'

Cas grinned. 'You can dry me, then. I, ah... I don't think I can bend.'

'Honestly, I'm not sure I can, either.' He grabbed the towel from the rack – it was large and white, the material rough without being scratchy – and threw it around Cas's shoulders, gently patting him dry. Cas inhaled sharply, and Dean ducked his head, abruptly overwhelmed by the strength of his feelings. How badly he'd wanted Cas before was nothing compared to how much he wanted him now, and that was terrifying. He felt shipwrecked, as though he'd washed ashore in a place to which he had no map, and when he went down on one knee, drying Cas's legs, the urge to take his cock in his mouth was almost irresistible. He wanted to taste him, make him come; wanted Cas to pull his hair and drag him to bed and bend him over, sucking and fucking and biting until neither of them could walk straight; until Dean was stretched out and screaming beneath him; until –

He lurched upright, gasping, grabbed Cas and kissed him fiercely, the towel abandoned. He felt Cas's gasp of surprise and instantly pulled back, ashamed at his lack of control, but Cas just cradled his face in his hands, pulling him in until their foreheads touched. Dean was shaking, and not just from cold.

'What have you done to me?' he whispered. 'I've never – it's never been like this, I don't –'

'Shh.' Cas kissed him, pulled him into an embrace. 'It's all right. It's all right.'

Dean shut his eyes, holding Cas as if he was in danger of blowing away. 'I don't want to hurt you,' he said, desperately. 'Cas, you need to know that now, I don't want to hurt you, but I'm not a good man, I'm not what you think I am.'

Cas's grip tightened. 'Don't say that,' he said, fiercely. 'Don't you ever say that to me again.'

'Say what?'

'That you're not a good man.'

'You don't know that.'

'I do.' Cas looked him square in the eyes, his gaze so brightly blue, it was like falling into the Mediterranean. 'If you're not a good man, no one is. Now –' and here he drew a shaky breath, '– let's go see if that chicken soup is edible.'

Somehow, Dean laughed. 'Don't get your hopes up.'

Cas kissed his nose and grinned. 'I wouldn't dream of it.'

 

*

 

The soup wasn't wholly terrible, though the salsa notes were a bit jarring. Cas tried his best to make encouraging noises, but once he realised that Dean wasn't thrilled with the outcome, either, he tactfully suggested that perhaps it just needed to simmer overnight. Sheepishly, Dean agreed; the lid went on, the heat went down, and at Cas's suggestion – the post-coital endorphin high was rapidly wearing off, leaving him tired and sore – they took themselves into the bedroom with the rest of the Well Bread goodies and the only alcohol Cas had to hand. Rather embarrassingly, this turned out to be a bottle of sweet sherry he'd once bought to cook with; Dean raised a mocking eyebrow, but pronounced it to be better than nothing, and soon they were lying in bed, trying and failing to not spill crumbs everywhere and washing the pastries down with swigs of sherry.

'Y'know,' said Dean, giving the bottle a considering glance, 'this isn't actually that bad. I mean, sure, it tastes like children's cough syrup, but I always sort of liked that stuff.'

'Your hidden depths are astonishing,' said Cas. Sitting up, he cast around for his painkillers: his face had started to throb again, and his side wasn't much better.

'Here,' said Dean, instantly solicitous. 'Let me.' And before Cas could argue, he got out of bed and grabbed them off the top of the dresser.

'Thanks,' said Cas. He popped two in his mouth, washing them down with the sherry. Dean smiled and ducked his head, brushing crumbs aside as he climbed back in beside him. Cas remembered the feel of him, the way he'd begged and whimpered and bucked; remembered, too, the gentleness of his hands on his back, and the terrified look on his face as he'd said,  _I'm not a good man_ . For the first time, he really considered what it meant that Dean knew someone like Crowley, and wondered what sort of favour the loan shark could possibly want from him. He should have felt apprehensive, or at least worried, that he knew so little about his lover, but – his  _lover_ ? The word pulled him up short, completely derailing his train of thought. Was Dean his lover? He considered the question, and decided that yes, he was; and more, that he preferred that appellation to the alternatives.  _Partner_ felt somehow presumptuous, the term implying the sort of commitment that Cas had no right to expect, while  _boyfriend_ seemed both too juvenile and too innocent.

Easing himself onto his side, he looked at Dean, amazed all over again by the sheer beauty of the man, with his delicate features and narrow hips, and a rear that was, frankly, magnificent. Sensing Cas's scrutiny, Dean blinked.

'What? What is it?'

Suddenly shy, Cas said, 'This makes us lovers, I think.'

For an instant, Dean looked stunned, and then a truly spectacular blush turned his whole face red. 'Yeah,' he managed. 'Yeah, I think it does.' A trace of his earlier worry returned. 'But, Cas, I meant what I said before. You don't know me. You don't know the stuff I've done. This thing with Crowley –'

'I don't give a shit about Crowley,' said Cas. 'I care about you.'

'Well, maybe you shouldn't.'

'Because I don't know you?'

Dean looked away. 'Because if you did, you might wish you didn't.'

Reaching across the bed, Cas tangled their fingers together. 'So tell me, and find out.'

He looked honestly scared. 'But what if you –'

'Dean.' He squeezed his hand, struggling to find the right words. 'I'm not... you know I'm not the most normal person on earth. No, don't argue with me, you know it's true. I'm damaged. Sometimes it's just less obvious, is all. And with everything going on right now, on the news –' an awful lump formed in his throat, '– it's hard. It's really hard. But being with you, I just... you make me feel like I deserve to get through this, like maybe I  _can_ get through this. And I'm not trying to say that's all this is, that I'm just using you, because I'm not, I would  _never_ –'

'I don't think that,' said Dean. 'It's all right.'

Cas felt his heart lift. 'But you see? That's just it. You're here, and you tell me  _it's all right_ , and I believe it. I believe  _you_ . So, no, I don't care what you've done in the past that you think is so terrible. I care about who you are.'

Dean looked agonised. 'Cas, I'm serious. I'm not a good person.'

'What, did you hurt a child? Beat a partner? Rape someone?'

Dean flinched as though struck, pulling his hand back. 'Jesus, no! Why would you even say that?'

'Because,' said Cas, calmly, 'those are the only truly unforgivable crimes, and I don't believe for a second that you're capable of committing them.'

'You'd forgive me murder, then?' There was a strange, hard look on his face. 'I was a soldier once, Cas. A soldier, and a police officer, and I worked for criminals. I've killed people. Sometimes I meant to do it, and sometimes I only let them die because I was stupid or slow or scared, but in the end, it doesn't matter a damn what the reason was: those deaths are on me, and you can't just sit there and act like it's OK, like I shouldn't feel the weight of it.'

This time, Cas was the one who flinched. 'Dean, I'm sorry, I didn't mean –'

'I know.' His voice was rough with emotion. 'But that's what I'm saying, Cas. I've done bad things, and maybe I'm a good person now – or at least, I'm trying to be – but that doesn't mean I always was, or that I get to pretend it never happened. And whatever this is between us, being lovers – I want it. I want  _you_ . God, do I want you.' His breath caught, and for a moment, Cas was lost. 'But if I just dump my past in your lap, then I'm not being fair to either of us, because right now, the last thing you need is extra baggage, and the last thing I need is to think about all the ways I could fuck this up. So, yeah. One obstacle at a time, is all I'm saying.'

'Meaning what?'

'Meaning,' said Dean, 'that I saw Crowley today. He came knocking when you were out, and I know what he wants from me, and it's nothing good.' Cas opened his mouth to protest not having been told this earlier, but Dean forestalled him with a shake of his head. 'I know, I should've said something. I'm sorry. I just thought you deserved some rest, is all.'

Cas's lips twitched. 'I wouldn't call our time in the shower restful.'

Dean smiled. 'You know what I mean.' And then, more seriously, 'I just think, you know, with everything else going on right now – Nevada, and loan sharks, and getting mugged – we need to be able to set it aside a little, not because it's not important, but because we are, too.'

'I can see that,' Cas said, softly.

'OK.' Dean ran a hand through his hair, suddenly at a loss for words. 'I, uh – OK, then.'

There was a comfortable silence. Cas was bone-tired; the painkillers had kicked in, and all at once, he wanted nothing so much as sleep. Awkwardly brushing crumbs from the bed, he discarded the plate and the sherry bottle, then settled back again, tucking himself up against Dean's broad, warm chest. Taking the hint, Dean carefully put an arm around him, cuddling close. They were naked, and despite his exhaustion, Cas felt absurdly flattered by the press of Dean's erection against his buttocks.

'Tell me about Crowley tomorrow,' he said, stifling a yawn.

'All right.'

Cas closed his eyes, feeling Dean shift and settle against him. His lover kissed his neck, and in return, Cas lifted his hand and kissed the knuckles.

Falling asleep, his last thoughts were of comfort, and warmth, and safety.

He didn't dream.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Dean woke slowly, sleepily puzzled as to where he was and why the alarm wasn't ringing. He felt heavy and well-rested, but not hungover; there wasn't even an aftertaste of bourbon. Soft light filtered down on him through the blinds of an unfamiliar room. No, not unfamiliar: just not his. He rolled on his side, and there was Cas, half-smiling in his sleep through bruises much less livid than they'd been the night before.

Warmth unfurled in his stomach, spreading throughout his body like he'd downed a cup of mulled wine. Cas lay half on his side, the blankets coiled enticingly around his hips, a lock of hair hiding the cut over his eye. Hesitantly, Dean reached out and brushed it back behind his ear, then snatched his hand away as Cas murmured and stirred. He tried to lie still, irrationally scared that if Cas woke up, then he would, too, the moment revealed to be nothing more than a particularly cruel dream, but when Cas's eyes flickered open, the world remained the same.

'Hey there,' Dean said, tentatively.

'Hey,' yawned Cas. 'What time is it?'

'I don't know.'

'There's a clock on the dresser.'

'Oh. Uh, quarter past seven.' Dean blinked, sure he must have read it wrong. 'Is that thing right?'

'Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?'

'No reason. I just don't usually wake up this early, is all.'  _Or this easily, either_ . 

'Well, we did get an early night.'

'I guess,' said Dean, though by his recollection, it had been at least nine when they'd stepped into the shower, and after ten before they'd come to bed. Cas had fallen asleep almost instantly, but Dean had stayed awake for much longer, holding his lover until, with a boneless sigh, Cas had rolled away onto his stomach. It was Dean who'd quietly risen and tidied away the food from the bedside, checked the soup on the stove – and added a few last-minute ingredients, hoping to balance the salsa taste – and turned out the lights. He ought to have been exhausted, or groggy, or just plain passed out, but instead, he felt almost refreshed.

Cas frowned up at him. 'You look worried. Is something wrong?'

'No, not at all. Just the opposite.' And because it was easier than explaining, he leaned across and kissed Cas good morning. He'd meant it to be a simple conversation-stopper, but the second Cas responded, reaching up to stroke his jaw, Dean forgot about everything else, completely lost in the moment. God, it was ridiculous how much kissing Cas affected him; he almost felt like a teenager again, but even when he was seventeen, he'd generally been more interested in where he could put his hands than in what his mouth was doing. But with Cas, everything felt so much more intense than usual. It wasn't just that he was good – although, sweet hell, he was certainly that – but something more electric and indefinable, like he was setting Dean's blood on fire. He leaned into the kiss, weight shifting onto his forearms as Cas pulled him down, their bodies pressed flush together, his arousal so sudden, it left him gasping.

Cas shifted beneath him, sucking Dean's neck, his teeth and tongue working almost hard enough to bruise. Dean dropped his head, trailing kisses down Cas's collarbone to his chest, flicking playfully at his nipples – Cas gasped, gripping the bedsheet – and then down further still, over stomach and hip, until he reached his goal. Glancing up the length of Cas's body, he paused, taking a moment to enjoy the naked look of desire on his face, then slid his mouth down over his cock. Eyes shut with pleasure and concentration, Dean licked up the underside of the shaft, savouring the taste of him, stroking the inside of Cas's thighs with his thumbs. Cas bucked his hips, his fingers digging into Dean's hair, but never abusing the privilege of control, guiding his mouth with gentle pressure. Briefly pulling free, Dean licked his fingers, wetly teasing Cas's ass and perineum, then taking him as deep as his gag reflex would allow, on and on, until his lover was shaking.

'Oh god, Dean.' Cas groaned and came, and Dean swallowed, the sharp taste somewhere between salt and umami, trailing warmth down his throat. He straightened, wiping his mouth on his hand, and was taken completely aback when Cas sat up and kissed him. He pulled away, confused. Man or woman, he'd never been kissed by a partner after he'd gone down on them – in fact, the few times he'd tried it, the response had been universally disgusted, and he'd long since assumed it was something nobody wanted.

'You don't... you don't have to do that,' he said, awkwardly. 'I mean, I can go wash my mouth out first, or –'

Cas kissed him again, his use of tongue both deliberate and, as a consequence, wildly arousing. When they broke apart, he grinned, one hand curling possessively around Dean's erection.

'Don't be ridiculous. Now, what am I going to do with you?'

'Whatever you want,' said Dean, hoarsely.

'Good,' said Cas. He put a palm to his chest and shoved; Dean fell back onto the blankets, eyes wide as Cas reached under the bed and pulled out a bottle of lube. Breathing fast, Dean lay back and watched as his lover squeezed the clear gel onto his hands. Smiling, Cas knelt between his legs, widening his stance until Dean was forced to do likewise. He felt totally exposed, and as Cas reached for him again, he realised he was whimpering.

'Eyes open,' said Cas, when he went to close them. 'Look at me. I want you to look at me.'

As he spoke, he gripped Dean's shaft in one hand, two fingers of the other working expertly at his ass, first teasingly, then pushing inside. Dean groaned, utterly overcome; he wasn't going to last long, and even as he writhed and tensed, his gaze never wavered, pinned in place by that beautiful blue stare.

In the shower, Cas had worked on him with a devastatingly slow burn, arousal building until Dean could barely see straight; by contrast, what he did now was hard and fast, but no less skilled, a series of buttons pressed with perfect synchronicity. His climax hit him like a lightning strike; he arched his back and cried out, pushing himself onto Cas's fingers, and then lay gasping, covered in sweat and semen.

Heedless of the mess, Cas stretched out along his length and kissed him again, resting his head lightly on Dean's chest.

'That's... that's quite a way to wake up,' said Dean.

'True.'

'We should probably get up at some point, you know. Shower. Open the shops.'

'Also true.'

Dean put an arm around Cas's back, pulling him close, and for some minutes, they just lay there, breathing in and out. Then:

'What does Crowley want from you?' Cas asked.

Dean stilled. 'It's complicated.'

'Simplify it, then.'

He sighed. 'Basically, he wants me to bodyguard some guy called Teddy, because this other chick, Ruby Blue, wants Teddy dead. Ruby thinks I'm there to make her job easy, but Crowley wants me to make it hard.' And then, because Cas deserved to know, 'Crowley never loaned my brother anything. He made it up so I'd agree to help, because the real truth is, he gave Ruby my name, and she wants me there, and if I don't show –' He broke off, unable to bring himself to repeat the threat against Cas. 'Well, you get the idea.'

'And you believe him?' Cas asked. 'I mean, he's lied to you once. Who's to say he isn't lying now?'

'It's possible,' Dean admitted, remembering the look on Crowley's face as he'd held him over the railing, 'but not likely. And anyway, as much as this pisses me off, I'd rather not take the chance he's bluffing.' He tried for a laugh. 'Hey, at least he's paying me, right?'

Cas was silent for a moment. 'Will you have to kill anyone?'

'God, I hope not.' Briefly, Dean shut his eyes, and in the black behind his lids, he saw bodies: bloody men and women in Basra, dying soldiers, that poor kid with his cellphone, and a half dozen others he'd been too late to save. He blinked the images away, or tried to, and though he didn't say anything, Cas stroked his side, and kissed his jaw, and said, 'I hope so, too. But, Dean?'

'Yeah?'

'If it's ever a choice between you or them, pick you, OK? Come home to me.'

A lump rose in his throat. He pulled Cas close, kissing his hair, and blinked until the threat of tears had passed.  _I don't know what home is, but maybe it's this._

'Sure,' he managed. 'I promise.'

 

*

 

They showered together again, and even though they'd already taken care of each other, still they wound up covered in soap and necking, laughing at their own helpless lust. Only Cas's injuries kept things from going further – his ribs were tender, but his face throbbed, and anyway, they'd dallied enough that, despite their early wake-up, there was now some need to hurry. This time, at least, Cas had had enough forethought to grab a spare towel from the cupboard, and once he was dry, Dean hurried back to his own flat for a change of clothes and a toothbrush.

Cas dressed slowly, taking care to test the limits of his ribs. Upright, he was fine; it was only when he bent down suddenly or twisted too far that the pain returned. Heading into the kitchen, he was surprised to see the soup still bubbling away, and even more surprised by how good it smelled. He lifted the lid, inhaling the steam, and helped himself to a spoonful. Cautiously, he blew it cool. The salsa taste had gone, transmuted overnight into something richer and more savoury, though still with a hint of tomato, and far superior to the thin, tinned stuff he usually bought. Smiling, he replaced the lid and turned the stove off, pleased by the idea that Dean might turn out to be a good cook, after all.

But when he caught sight of the TV, his good mood vanished. He was trying so hard not to think about the Fellowship, about the siege in Nevada and all its terrible implications, but he could only compartmentalise so much while the thing was still ongoing. Or what if something had happened overnight? What if everyone was dead already? He gripped the bench, trying to get himself under control, too frightened to switch on the news but knowing that, sooner or later, he'd have to face the truth.

His phone rang, the sound incongruously loud as it buzzed against the tabletop. Cas stared at it, momentarily unsure of what he was meant to do. Should he let it go to voicemail? Pick up? The phone kept ringing, oblivious to his distress, until he snapped back into himself and answered.

'Hello?'

'Mr Novak? This is Sergeant Harris from the Southwall police station.'

'Yes?'

'I was just wondering if you'd be able to come in today, give your statement about the mugger. I know there's not much chance of us catching him, but still, I'd like to be able to get a description circulated sooner rather than later.'

'Yes. Yes, of course.' He ran a hand down his face. 'Is lunchtime OK? Around 12:30?'

'Sure, we can work with that. Just ask for me at the desk.'

'I will.'

'I'll see you then.'

He hung up. Cas stared at the phone, then slowly set it back down on the bench. He was still staring when Dean returned, dressed in a different pair of jeans, a Bad Company tee and a brown jacket.

'Who was that?' he asked, shutting the door.

'Oh. The police.'

His distress must have showed on his face; Dean walked straight over, stroking his thumb over Cas's cheek.

'Hey, hey, it's all right. If they call again, just give me the phone. I'll talk to them.'

'No, it's not that. It's the other stuff, you know. Nevada.'

'Oh.'

'Yeah.' He leaned into his lover's touch, shutting his eyes as Dean cupped his face and kissed his forehead. 'I don't know what to do. I don't want to watch the news, but if something bad happens, and I miss it –'

'Same deal, then. I'll watch it for you.'

'What?'

'Let me watch it,' Dean said again. 'Look, I've got my computer set up in the store; I'll pull the news up in the background, keep an eye on things, and if something happens, I'll come and get you. Or, no, how about this: I'll just watch, and I won't say anything unless you ask me. Any time you're worried, you just come and ask for an update, and we can decide together if you want to see the video or read the details. All right?'

'Thank you,' Cas whispered. His chest still felt tight, but some of the weight had lifted: he could breathe again. 'About the police, though – they want me to drop by the station today, give my statement over lunch.'

'You want me to drive you?'

'I don't want to be any trouble –'

'Cas.' Dean looked at him,  _into_ him, green eyes wide and serious. 'You are the exact opposite of trouble. Anything I can do, OK? You only have to ask.'

Cas forced himself to smile. 'OK.'

'All right then. So, you come get me whenever you're ready to go, and we'll grab lunch on the way back.'

'Actually,' said Cas, 'I thought we could have your soup. It's turned out really well.'

A faint flush turned Dean's cheeks pink. 'You don't have to –'

'Dean. I promise, I'm not just pretending to be nice to you. If I say I want the soup you cooked, then yes, I want the damn soup. And in the event that you put your mouth to, ah, creative uses –' he grinned, tracing a finger across Dean's lips, enjoying the way he shivered, '– then yes, I'll want to kiss you afterwards. I'm enjoying you, not doing you a courtesy, so stop apologising like you're racking up a debt.'

Dean gulped. 'Sure.'

'OK, then.' Cas pecked his cheek. 'Now, let's pretend we're actual working adults and go open the stores. I'll come get you when – if I need anything. Otherwise, I'll see you at lunch.'

 

*

 

Dean made his way downstairs in a daze of happiness. Logically, he knew his life was far from perfect, but just at that moment, he was hard-pressed to remember why. Cas was just – it was  _Cas_ , all of him, even with the triggers and scars and everything else going on. The way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled, and that teasing, serious look he got right before he took control; god, and the sex was  _amazing_ , but that wasn't even the best part. He knew he was being mawkish, sentimental in exactly the way his father had always hated, but even the memory of John Winchester's disapproval couldn't ruin the moment. He had a lover, and chicken soup, and a house that was his for as long as he wanted, and not even Crowley could take it away from him.

He unlocked the shop door, and found himself face to face with Anna.

'Huh?' he said, stupidly.

Anna rolled her eyes. 'You really do have the memory of a goldfish, don't you?'

'What did I do?'

'It's what you  _didn't_ do,' she corrected, sailing past him as if she owned the place. Today, she wore a colourful, patchwork skirt, a white cotton blouse and a fringed brown jacket whose leather almost exactly matched her boots, her springy red curls contained by a green silk scarf. 'You never texted your email address, so, here.' She proffered a sheet of paper – no, several sheets stapled together – which Dean accepted reflexively. 'My resume,' she said, exasperated at his confusion. 'Remember? You, me, phone-talkie, job? Any of that ringing a bell? You didn't call me, either.' She snorted. 'Usually, I have to sleep with a guy to be this ignored.' 

'Oh. Right. Right! Shit, Anna, I'm sorry, I just got, uh –' he grinned, '– distracted.'

'Distracted. Right. You – are those  _hickies_ ?' She was staring at his neck, a look of scandalised delight on her face. Quick as a flash, she hooked a finger under his collar and yanked it sideways, exposing his shoulder. 'Oh my god, they are! You  _vixen_ !'

Dean felt himself turning red. 'I have hickies?'

Anna raised an incredulous eyebrow. 'You didn't know?'

'I, uh, didn't exactly look in the mirror this morning.'

' _Vixen_ ,' she repeated, eyes bright with humour. 'I salute you, sir!'

Too embarrassed to form a reply – and a little too excited by the idea that Cas had physically marked him – Dean hurried over to the counter, putting its comforting solidity between him and Anna. Setting down her resume and starting up the computer, he fumbled for a safer conversational gambit and managed, 'So, tell me – do you actually like music, or are you just looking for a job? No judgement either way; I'm just curious.'

'I'll bet you are,' she said, lips twitching, but graciously allowed the change of topic. 'I like music plenty – I mean, I'm not a musician or anything, and I've got a pretty broad taste, but yeah. Music is one of the good things in life.'

'Agreed.' As the system booted up, he flipped on the store lights, trying to decide what music to play. 'Any classic rock in your broad taste, by chance?'

'Possibly. It depends what you mean by classic.'

Dean looked up at her, realising belatedly that Anna was probably younger than him. 'Not wanting to be rude or anything, but how old are you?'

Happily, she didn't seem offended. 'Twenty-four. It's all right there on the resume.'

'OK, so classic to you means – ?'

'Pretty much anything prior to 1990.'

Dean considered the answer. 'I can work with that. Name me some names.'

She frowned, crinkling her nose. 'Uh, The Who, Joan Jett, Jimi Hendrix, the Stones –'

'Yeah, you can stay.' He grinned at her, but the smile faded as he brought up the latest on the Fellowship raid: two officers had been shot, one fatally, while trying to attempt entry into the compound overnight, while an unspecified number of Brother Tiberius's congregation were believed to have been injured when a flashbang grenade was misfired into a crowded room.

'What's up?' said Anna, coming over.

'Nothing.' Dean minimized the window before she could get a look, deftly slotting Back in Black into the CD player. As the opening chords of Hell's Bells filled the store, he turned to Anna, clapped his hands, and grinned.

'All right, new employee. Let me show you the ropes.'

 


	11. Chapter 11

Fridays were often busy, though Cas had never quite figured out why. Whatever the reason, he was grateful for it: from the moment he opened at 9, there was a steady stream of customers, most of whom bought something, and that made it easier to push all thoughts of the Fellowship to the back of his mind. And then there was Dean's music, too: only days ago, it had been a source of irritation, an intrusion into his quietude, but now he found it strangely comforting – a reminder that he wasn't alone, that his lover was right next door. He was even starting to recognise particular songs, and more than once, he found himself humming along, surprised by his own enjoyment.

Just before midday, he locked up and headed into Impala Records, doing his best to suppress his own nerves. Opening the door, however, he was surprised to find Dean laughing with the barista from Well Bread, a pretty, dark-skinned girl with a mass of bright red hair; the one Dean had said was cute. As he entered, they both turned, clearly caught in the middle of an engaging conversation. Cas had never been prone to jealousy – though in fairness, that was as much due to circumstance as because it went against his nature – but his stomach lurched all the same. He'd expected Dean to be alone; he didn't know why the barista was there, and her presence left him feeling exposed.

'Hi!' she said, giving him a friendly wave. 'I'm Anna. You're Cas, right?'

'Yeah,' he said, hating his own confusion. 'I, ah – Dean?'

His lover looked guilty. 'Sorry, Cas. I would've mentioned it earlier, but I forgot. Anna's a friend, and seeing as how she's looking for work, I've hired her on to help out, just casual, you know.' He hurried over, squeezing his hand in apology.

'That's fine,' Cas managed to say. 'I just, ah, the police –'

'I know. We can go right now.' Dean turned back to Anna. 'Think you'll be all right on your own?'

Anna gave a lazy salute. 'I know these trenches. I'll be fine.' And then, to Cas, with a playful grin, 'Nice work on his neck, by the way.  _Very_ impressive.' 

Cas was utterly baffled. He looked to Dean for an explanation, and only then did he notice the string of purpling marks his teeth had made. His eyes went wide, and for an awful moment, he was caught between mortification that a complete stranger knew anything about his sex life, flustered pleasure at the morning's adventures, and surprise that he hadn't noticed earlier.

'Oh, ah, I, ah –' he stuttered, and almost collapsed with relief when Dean, rather than teasing him, gave his hand another squeeze and said to Anna, 'Behave yourself. We'll be back later!', gently pulling Cas out of the store and not letting go until they reached the Impala.

Silently, they both climbed in. Dean buckled his belt, but didn't start the engine. Cas looked at him, waiting, his stomach too full of knots to speak.

Finally, Dean said, 'I'm sorry. I really did forget she was starting today.'

'That's OK,' Cas said, nervously. 'It's just, you haven't really mentioned her, but you're – I mean, you've talked to her about me. I wasn't expecting it.'

Dean winced. 'Sorry. I never meant to say anything – she just sort of, uh, figured it out, and once she had, there didn't seem to be much point in pretending otherwise.' He went quiet for a moment. 'Other than you, she's the first friend I've made here. I should have told you. I should have remembered –'

'No!' The refusal burst from him with unexpected force; he was so upset that, even knowing it was completely irrational, he kept on tripping over his words. 'No, I mean, you don't owe me an explanation, I don't own you, I have no right – it's not, I mean, it's not like that, I'm just – it's just  _today_ , I thought you'd be alone and I didn't – this is pathetic, I know it's pathetic, she was perfectly nice and I just froze up, I shouldn't –'

Dean kissed him, a sweet, firm peck that silenced him utterly. Pulling back, he smiled. 'Let's just agree we're both idiots,' he said. 'How does that sound?'

Shakily, Cas pulled himself together. 'I can live with that.' He took a deep breath, and as Dean started the engine, he made himself ask, 'Any news?'

Dean hesitated. 'A little. Some police were shot, and there was a flashbang that went off in the compound, but that's it. No information released on anyone inside who might be injured.'

'Oh.'

They pulled away from the curb, and Cas hunched his shoulders, knowing what he had to say, but also that it would hurt. He shut his eyes, and somehow, that made it easier.

'My mother's real name is Julia Fairchild, but when we moved in with the Fellowship, she started going by Julia-Mary. My sisters are called Clarity and Evidence.' His throat tightened. 'Clarity should be sixteen by now, Evi about twelve.'

He opened his eyes, and found that Dean was looking at him. 'I'll remember that,' he said, softly. And then, in a curious tone, 'So, where did Novak come from?'

Cas's mouth twisted. 'I picked it out of the phone book when I turned eighteen. I wanted to get a fresh start. Almost changed my first name, too. I hated it growing up; I was always teased. But part of me thought, if my family ever gets free of the Fellowship, I should leave them a way to find me. There aren't too many Castiels out there, they could track me down. And it was... well, in a way, it was all I had left of my mother. Of who she used to be, before the desert. Not that she was perfect before then, but it was still better.'

They stopped at a set of lights, the engine rumbling like a big cat's purr, and despite everything, Cas realised he was starting to feel a bit fond of the big, stupid car. It was ludicrous, but it had character, and somehow, Dean looked more at home behind the wheel than he ever did in his store.

'I'm sure they're all fine, Cas,' he said, after a moment. 'I mean, the police are making a mess of things now, but they'll get everyone out OK in the end.'

It was a pleasant lie, and they both knew it, but Cas appreciated the effort.

'Of course,' he said.

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

 

*

 

Walking into the police station, Dean felt nervous. After the encounter with Anna and their talk about the Fellowship, Cas had retreated into himself, and the whole necessity of being there was putting him on edge. Still, at least they weren't kept waiting: without any preamble, the duty officer lead them through to the interview rooms, where they were introduced to one Sergeant Harris, who was evidently expecting them. He greeted Cas with a handshake and acknowledged Dean with a polite nod.

'This shouldn't take too long,' he said, motioning Cas towards a small room.

Dean caught Cas's eye and said, 'Do you want me to stay with you?' It was technically allowed, though sometimes frowned on, but he'd rather risk annoying the sergeant than abandoning Cas.

In answer, Cas shook his head, forcing a thin smile. 'It's all right. You don't need to.'

It wasn't really a no, but with Sergeant Harris looking bored at the delay and the duty officer clearly keen to get back to his post, there wasn't any space to push the issue.

'You can wait in the lounge,' said the duty officer. 'Follow me, please.'

With a final glance at Cas, Dean complied, and found himself taken to a square, open room furnished with two beige coffee tables, some dilapidated lounges, a drinks machine, and a wall-mounted TV, which several other officers were watching over lunch.

'Thanks,' said Dean. His guide grunted, leaving him to take a seat.

Not feeling like he was in a position to ask for the remote, Dean was forced to watch a series of too-bright, too-loud commercials, and then the tail end of a daytime soap. The officers were clearly ironic fans, laughing and murmuring to each other about various implausibilities in the plot while mimicking the dialogue. The credits rolled over a closing montage that was straight out of the eighties; Dean chuckled despite himself, and the other officers grinned at him in brief camaraderie.

Two more commercials, one for deodorant and one for chocolate, and then a news bulletin came on. Dean tensed, and in the brief seconds between the station logo flashing up and the newsreader opening her mouth, he found himself hoping there'd be no mention of Nevada or the Fellowship; that events would be at a standstill, and therefore undeserving of air time. The media, however, had other ideas, and sure enough, the siege was once again the lead story.

'Turn it up, Nick,' said one of the officers. 'God, these fuckin' clowns and crazies. Whole thing's a mess.'

_You don't know the half of it_ , Dean thought. 

'We now go live to our local correspondent, Michael O'Hare,' the blonde newsreader chirruped, turning side on as a middle-aged man with windblown hair appeared on a screen to her left. 'Michael, can you hear us out there?'

The screen cut fully to O'Hare, who was standing in much the same vantage point as the last reporter Dean had seen: a desert backdrop broken by the barest corner of a tall, mesh fence.

'Yes I can, Crystal, and after the dramatic events of last night, the authorities here are still on high alert outside the Fellowship compound. There's no word yet on whether the flash grenade that was allegedly misfired into a crowded room has resulted in any casualties, but I am now in a position to reveal that the second of two officers shot on duty overnight, Sergeant Kendra Carson, has just gone into surgery, with doctors saying the next few hours will be critical to her recovery. Ah –' He turned aside, speaking to someone off camera. 'What? What are you seeing?'

'Michael?' The screen split, cutting back to the first newscaster. 'Is something happening?'

'I don't know. I think –' O'Hare returned to full screen, '– one of the cameramen may have just spotted some movement in the compound, but we're not clear –'

And then, from the doorway, someone said, 'I've finished. We can – Dean?'

It was Cas; Dean stood and turned, heart pounding –  _oh god, he needs to get out of here, now_ – but it was too late. Cas's eyes were fixed on the TV, his exit blocked by Sergeant Harris, who had also stopped to watch, his solid bulk filling the doorway. Dean swallowed, moving to Cas's side.

'Come on, we don't have to watch this.'

'No. I need –'

'Oh, my god!'

It was O'Hare, the camera panning quickly back to reveal the full scene: a flock of reporters standing beside a line of police cars, all pointing towards the fenced-in bulk of the compound. People were shouting both in shot and from off; the camera jolted, the lens refocussing wildly, and all at once, Dean realised why: away in the distance, three small figures were fleeing the main building, running towards the gates. O'Hare was no longer visible, but his voice was still clearly audible, flush with energy as he narrated the scene.

'Viewers, I don't know if you can see this, but there are two, no, three people currently attempting to exit the compound – I can see men moving on the roof, this is clearly unplanned – the police are responding, moving into position –'

'Oh god,' Cas whispered. 'Oh god, no.'

'Come away,' Dean said, desperately, 'Cas, don't look –' But it was no good; his lover refused to budge.

'– They're at the gates, but I don't know if – yes! Yes, they're opening – the people are coming out, running, possibly part of a new assault –'

The camera telescoped in, and suddenly, the figures became distinct: two of the three had their arms raised, and despite O'Hare's hyperbole, they were clearly unarmed. The tallest figure ushered the smaller two ahead, pulling the gate shut, and then all three began to run, legs pumping.

'– Three women,' O'Hare was saying, 'viewers, I think we're looking at three women – no, three women and a child, one of them has a child on her back, maybe about five years old – running towards the police barricade – this is an extraordinary sight –'

'Oh god,' Cas said again, and suddenly he went all over rigid, a terrible low moan building in his throat. 'Oh no, no, oh god, it's them, it's  _them_ –' He surged forwards, and Dean had to grab him, wrapping his arms around his chest as Cas struggled madly. He stared at the screen, and all at once, a terrible understanding went through him, and he whispered, ' _Shit_ .' 

Three women, two barely more than girls, the youngest piggybacking a smaller child whose tiny arms were wrapped so tightly around her neck, it was a wonder she could breathe, let alone run. All of them barefoot, clad in identical dresses that had once been white, but whose hems were stained with desert dust, and all of them with dark brown hair and freckled skin.

Julia-Mary Fairchild, Clarity and Evidence.

'Please,' Cas whimpered. 'Please, please, please –'

'– They've nearly made it!' O'Hare yelled. 'They're nearly at the barricade –'

An echoing crack. A chorus of outraged shrieks.

Julia-Mary seemed to trip, the blood that burst from her chest almost incidental, she fell so gracefully. The camera slewed crazily as the girls kept running, screaming over their shoulders for  _mama, mama!_ ; O'Hare was swearing, yelling at someone to  _get down, get the fuck down and keep rolling_ ; and there in the station, Cas made a noise that was utterly inhuman, throwing himself against the strength of Dean's arms as he fought and twisted and sobbed, a wrenching litany of pain, and oh, god, everyone was staring and Dean wanted to kill them; would gladly have killed O'Hare and Brother Tiberius and every last fucking person between here and Nevada if it would only put Cas in the same square footage as the woman now bleeding out in the dirt – and then, like the cruellest joke of all, the camera cut out to the sound of a second gunshot. The screen went black – the whole room seemed to suck in breath – and suddenly they were back with the studio, the female newscaster visibly stunned, her mouth hanging open as she, too, stared at the empty screen where O'Hare's report should have been.

'We, ah, seem to be experiencing some technical difficulties, viewers –'

' _No!_ ' Cas screamed. He was flailing, shaking; Dean could barely hold him. 'Bring her back, you have to bring her back!' 

' _Get the fucking TV off, now!_ ' Sergeant Harris bellowed, and whoever had the remote obeyed with alacrity: the screen went wholly dark, and then the only sound was Cas sobbing. He fell to his knees, devoid of strength, and Dean went with him, pulling him into a tight embrace as he turned to stare defiantly up at the sergeant.

'Mr Winchester! What the actual hell?' Harris was still half-shouting, but more from shock than anger; he was shaking, a look of real fright on his face as he stared at Cas. 'Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have Mr Novak committed!'

Dean struggled to speak, his throat was so tight, and only then did he realise he, too, was crying.

'The woman who was shot,' he croaked, staring daggers at Harris. 'She's Cas's mother. His  _mother,_ OK?'

Sergeant Harris's mouth fell open. He visibly paled, his gaze going from Dean to Cas to back again. Whatever answer he'd been expecting, that clearly wasn't it.

'Oh,' he said, weakly. One of the other officers swore.

Cas shuddered, his head buried in Dean's shoulder. 'I need to know,' he whispered. There was no need to specify what. Dean kept glaring at Harris, who just stood there, looking about as useful as tits on a bull.

'Look, I used to be a cop,' Dean said, angrily, 'I know how this works. Officially, Nevada won't want to tell you anything, but unofficially, you can call them right the fuck up and say the victim's son would like to know, please and thank you, if she's actually fucking  _alive_ .' 

The request seemed to jolt Harris out of his stupor. 'I've only got your word for it they're even related.'

'Then look it up! This is Castiel Novak, formerly Castiel Fairchild. His mother's name, the name of the woman you just saw, that's Julia Fairchild, sometimes Julia-Mary, and if anyone running that operation has the slightest clue what they're doing, they'll be able to confirm what I'm telling you. Please.' His voice broke on the word. 'Don't make this worse than it is.'

For a long moment, Harris was silent. Then he turned to the other officers present, his face like a thundercloud.

'I expect the utmost discretion and sensitivity from everyone in this room,' he warned, 'and not just because that's what I'd ask of any decent human being. If Mr Novak here is indeed connected to the Fellowship, then whoever's running the investigation is probably going to want to interview him privately –'

'Not gonna happen,' Dean said, fiercely. Sergeant Harris stared at him, clearly unused to being interrupted by civilians, but Dean was unrepentant. 'Jesus Christ, dude, do you even see what this is doing to him? Stop grandstanding and make the damn call!'

One of the other officers made a sound that was somewhere between incredulity and tense laughter. Harris's head jerked up, eyes narrowing as he sought to identify the culprit, but either he'd been too slow or didn't favour disciplining the guilty party in front of an audience, because his next move was to hunker down on his haunches, putting himself at Dean's eye level.

'Understand me,' he said, quietly. 'If I do this for you, then it goes both ways. He wants to know about her, then they're going to have to know about him – that's how this works. You say you're an ex-badge? Think it through. You know I'm right, so you decide. Either he stays anonymous and you get your updates from the news, like everyone else, or you put his name in the mix and maybe find out sooner.' He paused, weighing his next words carefully. 'They're going to come for him eventually, you know, either because she wakes up and asks for him, or because someone else does. You want to dictate terms, try and keep him safe, you need something to bargain with, and right now, all you've got is the ability to start the conversation. Use it.' He stood up, hands on hips. 'Well? What's it going to be?'

Dean shut his eyes, scrubbing the tears away with the back of his wrist. Cas had fallen silent, shivering as he clung to him. Very gently, Dean pulled his head back, trying to get Cas to do likewise, trying to see his face.

'Cas, you hear any of that? You gotta tell me what to do, here.' He lifted his lover's chin, and the look on his face damn near broke his heart.

'It doesn't matter,' said Cas. His crumpled expression was one of utter hopelessness, his eyes red and wet, his almost-smile like a smashed mirror. 'None of it matters any more. I just need to know. Let them come.' He lowered his head back against Dean's neck, and murmured, barely audible, 'They were always going to come.'

Struggling to keep his emotions in check, Dean looked back at Sergeant Harris. 'You heard him,' he said, shakily. 'Make the call.'

 


	12. Chapter 12

Castiel was lost.

He felt like his body was made of paper so thin, a sharp-edged breath could cut it. He was heavy and weightless all at once, and when the warm presence he distantly knew was Dean tried to help him stand, his legs swayed under him like uneven props. He was conscious of voices, of words being spoken about and past him, but could no more pin down their meaning than he could read Sanskrit as, over and over and over again, he watched his mother run and fall, her blood jewel-bright as the bullet passed through her. Twelve years too late, she had finally run from Brother Tiberius, and still he'd refused to let her go.

Only Dean's arm around his shoulders kept him upright.  _This is your fault,_ the blank voice hissed.  _You left them there to suffer and die. You knew what he was. You could have gone back. You could have helped._

_I know,_ Cas thought.  _I know._ He wanted to weep, but his tears were gone, replaced by the leaden certainty that even that much relief was more than he deserved. All at once, his strength gave out: he let go of Dean and dropped, his vision reduced to whirling spots and flashes as he tried not to be sick. Someone rubbed his back; more voices babbled overhead; and then he was being levered into a chair, a glass of water thrust into his hand. He drank mechanically, tasting metal and salt. His mother was dead, he understood that now. She'd been dead for years; the bullet just made it official. No, no, that wasn't right; she'd been alive, and he'd as good as killed her, a matricide in spirit if not in flesh. And what about his sisters? What about that nameless, sexless child they'd carried with them, who was maybe his sibling, and maybe not? Were they dead, too? He imagined them shot, coughing and crying in that bleak, forsaken stretch of the Mojave Desert, and his whole body turned to ice.

A hand on his face, almost feverishly warm. He looked up into bright green eyes and a beautiful, worried face.

'Cas, the cops are doing what they can to find out what's happening, but it'll take a while, and we need to get you home. We need to go, OK? You have to get up.' And then, the words tight with desperation, 'Cas, baby, are you in there? Can you hear me?'

He managed the barest nod. His pulse was in his scars, and his scars were in his throat; he couldn't speak, or he'd rip them open, vomiting black blood deep enough to drown in. Lips on his forehead; the kiss burned against him like Cain's mark, or the smudged  _emet-meit_ of a dying golem, truth into death and skin of clay, and not a real man at all. Somewhere, Brother Tiberius was laughing, the old belt bright in his hand.  _You are a cracked vessel, Castiel. To your mother's shame, you most surely are. Do you repent? Or should I have you whet the blades? I'm doin' you a mercy, boy. The devil will surely take your soul, but first, I'll give you wings. You be quiet, now. Only sinners scream._

Dean kissed the cut over his eye. Cas blinked back tears, his fingers clenched on the arms of the chair.

'Come back to me.' A palm on the back of his hand, fingers stroking his wrist as another kissed brushed his cheek. 'I'm right here, Cas. Come back to me.'

The words slipped out before he could stop them, strangling his throat. 'If she's dead –'

'It's not your fault.'

'But I –'

'Shh.' Dean pulled him into his arms and stood, and somehow, Cas stood with him.

Slowly but surely, Dean lead him out to the car park, helping him into the Impala. The car was so old, there was just a single long front seat instead of two separate ones, and when Dean settled himself at the wheel and smoothed a lock of hair behind Cas's ear, it was the easiest thing in the world to just lean into the touch, slipping sideways until his head was resting in Dean's lap, his legs half-curled in the footwell. Dean smiled down at him, gently stroking Cas's cheek.

'You know this a manual, right? I change gears, your face is going to be right in line with my elbow.' But it wasn't really a criticism, and when Cas didn't move, he started the engine anyway. They made it the whole way home like that – though it took some careful driving on Dean's part – and when the engine finally shut off, Cas curled a hand across Dean's knee and straightened up, unbuckling himself.

Dean put an arm around his shoulders, kissing his temple. Cas shut his eyes, suddenly fighting tears. He wanted to be worthy of forgiveness, but couldn't believe it would ever be true.

'Why are you so good to me?'

'You're my lover,' Dean said simply, pressing his lips to the sensitive skin beside his ear. It was an exquisitely intimate kiss, both comforting and erotic, and despite everything, Cas shivered with pleasure. 'Of course I'm good to you.' Dean's free hand trailed up Cas's neck, fingers fanning gently across the juncture of jaw and throat, tilting his face around until their foreheads pressed together. Eyes still closed, Cas inhaled the scent of aftershave, leather and, very faintly, sweat. Craving closeness, he slipped a hand beneath his lover's shirt, resting his palm over Dean's heart, feeling the pulse quicken through his fingertips. They lipped at each other, not quite kissing, not quite teasing. Then Cas began to nip at Dean, first softly, then harder, until he lost all patience and captured his bottom lip, sucking on it wantonly. Dean's throaty gasp aroused him out of all proportion, and Cas kissed him hard, overwhelmed by the burning, desperate need to  _feel_ , to make everything else go away.

Urgently, Cas pulled Dean across to the middle of the seat and pushed him upright. Shifting his weight to one leg, he braced both palms against Dean's shoulders, half-stood, swung a knee over his lap and straddled him, ducking his head to keep from hitting the roof. Sliding his hands up either side of Dean's neck, he savoured the rapturous look in those bright green eyes, thumbs stroking across his cheeks. He ruffled his fingers through Dean's hair, pulling his face upwards as his own came down, grinding against him as they kissed. Dean moaned, his hands sliding up Cas's thighs and round to his ass, grabbing him closer, thrusting his hips. They were both rock-hard, their mouths and tongues working hungrily, and as they writhed and grabbed and groaned, as close to outright fucking as you could come while still fully clothed, they were suddenly interrupted by the shocked, disapproving exclamation of a passerby. 

Belatedly, it dawned on Cas that they were parked in the middle of a public street, in broad daylight, at lunch hour, in front of their respective places of business, in a car that hadn't been inconspicuous to begin with. Even so, it was a minute more before he could bring himself to stop, and then with difficulty; they were both breathing hard, still visibly aroused.

'Cas.' Dean was flushed, visibly gulping. 'Uh, don't take this the wrong way, but am I taking advantage of you right now?'

By way of answer, Cas slowly rolled his hips; Dean bit his lip, barely stifling groan.

'If anything,' said Cas, 'I think it's the other way around.'

'I just – oh,  _fuck_ – I don't want you to regret this later.'

Cas bowed his head, voice low as he spoke directly into Dean's ear. 'What I  _want_ ,' he murmured, grinding down again, Dean bucking and shuddering with every word, 'is for you to fuck me so hard, I forget my own name. I want  _you_ . I want to feel nothing  _but_ you, because if I feel anything else right now, feel any other part of today –' he swallowed the lump in his throat like a coal, '– it's only going to hurt, and I can't take that right now. So.' He leaned down further still and put his mouth over the biggest lovebite on Dean's neck, sucking it anew, then let go, staring into Dean's eyes. 'Don't make me beg. That's your job.'

 

*

 

Dean had never exited a car faster in his life.

Seeking to bypass Anna, Cas let them into Books of a Feather rather than Impala Records, and the second they'd both stepped through the door, he turned and pulled it shut behind them, shoving Dean against the glass and kissing him as his free hand worked the lock. And then Cas was tugging him backwards, up the internal stairs to his flat and straight into the bedroom, tearing Dean's clothes off so aggressively, he actually ripped the lining of his jacket. Stumbling as his jeans came down, Dean kicked off his shoes and socks and reached for Cas, the buttons of his shirt popping loose as Dean all but ripped it from him. He fell to his knees, denuding Cas of the last of his clothes, moaning as his lover grabbed his hair and showed him exactly where he wanted his mouth. Dean obliged, his tongue working skilfully, but he was just getting warmed up when Cas pulled his head back, stopping him.

'Beside you,' he panted, gaze flicking towards the lube. Dean grabbed it and stood, slicking the contents across both their palms. They reached for each other, stroking and gasping as their hands roamed. Suddenly, heedless of his bruises, Cas physically spun them both around and sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling Dean to his knees as he lay back, wrapping his legs around Dean's waist.

'Fuck me,' he whispered. 'That's an order, Winchester.'

Breathing hard, Dean put his hands under Cas's thighs, lifted and pushed into him, all while staring into his eyes, which were wide and blue as oceans. He didn't have Cas's slow control, but just then, he didn't need it: Cas arched his back and gripped the bed, pushing his hips forwards, moaning Dean's name as though it was the only word he knew. Dean shuddered on the brink, completely lost in the tight, wet heat of Cas's body. One hand gripping his lover's cock, he matched each stroke of his hand against the rhythm of his thrusts, feeling a sweat bead trickle between his shoulders. Cas's legs tightened around him, forcing Dean deeper, and suddenly he was coming so hard it was like having his first real orgasm all over again, but infinitely better, his hand abruptly sticky as Cas, too, tipped over the edge.

Pulling out, Dean collapsed forwards, gathering Cas against his chest as they both lay back, shaking. His heart was racing like a greyhound, and as Cas trapped his left leg under his thigh, curling snugly against him, Dean was overwhelmed by a fierce, fond possessiveness. The feeling expanded through his chest and out into his limbs, until he was holding Cas so tightly, he was half afraid of leaving more bruises.

_You're mine,_ he wanted to say.  _My lover, my only. Cas, I won't let them hurt you again. I swear it. I'm not going anywhere._ But all at once, the words stuck in his throat, silenced by the memory of his father's mockery, the sneering scorn which, sure as whiskey sting cuts, had quashed Dean's every childhood attachment. All too vividly, he knew what John Winchester would have to say about Cas, and as bad as the homophobic abuse would be –  _you pansy-ass faggot; what, is there a global shortage of women, or are you just too dumb to tell the difference?_ – it would be as nothing compared to his scathing ridicule of the idea that Dean might actually  _care_ about someone.  _How many days you been screwin' this nobody? Three? Four? Not even a damn week, boy, yet here you are, acting like you're in a fairy-tale. Pathetic. Just pathetic._

Dean shut his eyes, trying to banish John's voice through sheer strength of will, but not being able to manage it. In the years since he'd left home, he'd gotten very good at pretending he didn't have a father; or at least, of putting him so far out of mind as to moot the distinction. Logically, he knew John was toxic; that the surest route to a happy life was to take his every bit of vindictive advice and do the exact opposite. But logic only got you so far, and at times like this, it did jack squat against an emotional reaction so deeply ingrained as to have become reflex. 

And John or no John, the truth was, Dean was terrified of losing Cas, because that was what happened to things he wanted, people he cared about: they broke, or died, or went away, or got left behind, or some combination of all four, and not even the steady, peaceful feel of his lover breathing against his ribs could make him forget how utterly blank Cas had looked back at the station, like he'd just stepped out of himself and left a shell behind. Cas was in real danger – from the Fellowship, from Crowley; from his own triggers, even – and suddenly Dean was replaying all the times his father had laughed at him for thinking his feelings mattered, for the sheer temerity of wanting something that wasn't a beer or a well-paying job or meaningless sex.

_A school dance? You honestly expect me to pass up a full week's paid work, just so's you can listen to shitty music in a shittier gym? You're coming to Blackwood with me and Sam, and that's final._

_Jesus, Dean, what the hell do you wanna write to this Danny kid for, anyway? There'll be plenty of boys in Connecticut, and I bet not a one of them has such a stupid-ass haircut. Take the trade-up and stop being a sissy._

_I don't give a crap what I said at Easter; we're not staying in this shithole town a minute longer, and that's final. You're only fourteen, for god's sakes – how much of a girlfriend can she really be? Or do you honestly think she's gonna sit around here, moping after your sorry ass just 'cos you didn't say bye? Yeah, that's what I thought. Go get in the car._

_Can't bring a dog with us, Dean, not across country. He's just a damn stray; you let him go or I'll shoot him myself, put him out of all our miseries. Hell, it's not like anyone else'll want him. Shelter'd just do the same, only slower. Oh, what, are you crying now? I've taken you hunting, haven't I? You've shot a damn deer, seen me string one up. What makes this mutt any different? You keep carrying on, I'll make you do it. You want that? You want to kill him? Because you're sure killing me, all this carrying on over nothin'._

_You mention going to Uncle Bobby's one more time and so help me, I won't be responsible for my actions. One Christmas we had at his crapheap five damn years ago, and you've never shut up about it since. Well, this is the line in the sand, Dean. Don't you dare cross it._

'Dean?' Cas murmured. He turned his head to look up at him, a frown creasing his forehead 'Dean, what's wrong?'

'Nothing's wrong,' he said. 'I'm fine.'

'But you're crying.'

'I – what?'

'You're crying,' Cas repeated. He propped himself on an elbow, solicitously thumbing away the tears which, up until that moment, Dean hadn't even noticed.

'Oh, god.' He sat up, scrubbing fiercely at his face. He felt utterly ashamed of himself, sickened by his own self-pity. Jesus, and after everything Cas had been through in the past few hours, too: what the fuck kind of right did he have to be wallowing? 'It's nothing, really. I just, uh, I mean –' He stumbled to a halt, unable to think of a plausible lie.

Cas's arms twined around his waist, pulling him back down again. This time, though, it was Dean who rested his head on Cas, and Cas who held him close, one hand stroking the back of his neck.

'You don't have to tell me now,' he said, quietly, 'but you can talk to me. I might be damaged, but that doesn't give me a monopoly on grief, or issues, or any of it.'

'It does today,' Dean said, without thinking. And then, almost instantly, 'Oh shit, Cas, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that, I didn't mean –'

'It's OK,' Cas said, though he trembled in a way that made Dean feel lower than pond scum. 'I get it.'

'No. No, it's not OK.' Mirroring Cas's pose of a moment earlier, he sat up a little, resting his weight on an arm, so that he was the one looking down at his lover. 'It was a shitty thing to say. We came up here for you. Today, I'm here for  _you_ , not the other way around. Please, just let me take care of you.' He kissed his eyelids, then his cheeks; nose; chin; the corner of his mouth. 'I need to take care of you.'

'You already did,' breathed Cas. 'Twice, actually.'

'Well, you know what they say.' Dean smiled, and Cas's answering grin was all the forgiveness he needed. 'Third time's the charm.'

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

When Dean was finally done with him, Cas lay gasping, covered in sweat and trembling with the aftershocks of an orgasm he hadn't thought attainable, but which had nonetheless steadily overtaken him, as inexorable as a king tide. He didn't know how long Dean had worked on him; only that the combined ministrations of his mouth and hands had elevated him almost beyond consciousness, out of time and thought, until his plea that he be fucked into forgetting his own name had ceased to be a metaphor and become reality. Only now, as Dean collapsed against him, sucking the salt skin of Cas's throat, did he realise he'd near screamed himself hoarse with pleasure; that one leg was cramping, he'd held his muscles so tense against his climax; that threads of Dean's hair were snagged between his fingers, pulled out when he'd gripped and gasped, oblivious to everything but his own need.

'You – ah – oh, god, Dean – fuck, I –' He bit his lip, unable to form a coherent sentence. Pausing for breath, he tried again. 'I owe you something for that.'

Dean chuckled. 'No, you don't.'

'I mean, I  _really_ owe you something.' 

'No, you really don't.' And before Cas couldn't protest further, Dean said, 'Do you have any idea what you looked like just now, how you sounded? Cas, I came just from watching you.'

'I – what?' Cas thought he must have heard wrong; he blinked at Dean, mouth hanging open. 'Seriously?'

'Seriously.' He kissed him, lingering and slow, and Cas felt his heart turn over. Had anyone ever wanted him even a fifth as much as Dean did? Had he ever wanted anyone so badly in return? He pressed himself up against his lover, astonished that any part of him could still crave more, but electrified all over again by the mere possibility of finding out. Surely, four times in a single morning was pushing it.  _Surely._

The phone rang.

They broke apart, frozen in place by the sudden noise, by its implications. It was Dean's phone, and suddenly, Cas was shaking for a different reason entirely.

'Answer it,' he whispered, and Dean obeyed, half-diving off the bed to rummage the thing out of his jeans pocket. Cas forced himself upright, kneeling in the middle of the bed like a penitent child.

Finding the phone, Dean sat himself on the edge of the mattress, looking straight at Cas as he picked up.

'Hello?'

Cas couldn't hear the caller's voice; but then, he didn't need to. The way Dean stilled, and the sudden widening of his eyes, was identification enough. After what felt like an eternity of listening, Dean finally spoke.

'All of them? Are you sure?'

Cas felt his heart stop.  _Oh god no. No no no no no –_

'Sunrise Hospital? Let me get a –' Dean cast around as if for a pen, then seemed to realise the search was futile. 'Never mind, I'll remember it. Anything else we should know?'

A moment of agonising silence. Then: 'Right. OK. I'll, uh, I'll tell him that. And Sergeant? Thanks. I really appreciate it. If I can ever return the favour, just let me know. All right. Take care.'

He hung up. Cas couldn't even speak. Dean reached out and took his hand.

'She's alive, Cas. Critically injured, but stable.' He took a deep breath. 'But she wasn't the only one hit. The cameras all cut out because the Fellowship opened fire on the barricade; they aimed for your mother first off, but after that, it was pretty indiscriminate. No fatalities this time, but a cameraman and a reporter were both shot, along with a two of the officers who laid down covering fire, and... and your sisters.'

His throat was so tight, he could barely get the words out. 'How bad is it?'

'Not very,' Dean said quickly. 'Clarity was only grazed, but Evidence took a hit to the leg. She'll be fine, though; they'll all be fine.' He hesitated. 'The, uh, the other kid, the one they were carrying with them? He's at the hospital, too – not physically hurt; they just don't have anywhere else to put him yet. The girls aren't saying much – waiting for your mother to wake up, the cops think – but at best guess, he's four or five. His name's Balthazar.'

'He's hers, isn't he.' It wasn't a question.

'Yeah. Yeah, Cas. He is. I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. It's not your fault.'

'It's not yours, either.' Dean hesitated. 'There's one more thing. The FBI are involved now, Harris says, and they're going to want to talk to you. He doesn't know when or how, but they will.'

Cas nodded dumbly. Dean moved back to him, pulling him against his chest. 'You're freezing. C'mon. Let's get cleaned up, have some of that soup.'

'Then what?'

'Hey, one thing at a time. Food and warmth, Cas – they make everything better. That's why they're right at the top of that, that pyramid thing.'

'Pyramid thing?'

'You know. Coleslaw's hierarchy, or whatever.'

Despite himself, Cas cracked a smile. 'You mean Maslow.  _Maslow's_ hierarchy of needs.' 

Dean grinned. 'Yeah, that's the one. I mean, I'm not gonna force you to eat the soup, but we're both pretty, uh – well.' He waved a hand to indicate their bodies. 'We need a shower, is what I'm saying.'

It was true enough, and the weight of the phone call heavy enough, that for once, the shower was really just a shower. Dean got out first, drying himself off, then ducking back to the bedroom to dress, while Cas shut his eyes and rested his forehead on the glass, and wished that guilt could be rinsed away as easily as soap.

_Your mother was shot,_ the blank voice whispered,  _and what were you doing? Screwing your neighbour._

'Stop it,' he whispered. 

But the blank voice had its hooks in him, and refused to relent. He stumbled out of the shower, scrubbing the towel at his bruises until tears sprang to his eyes, trying to fight pain with pain, and failing.  _You're a whore, Castiel. You sold your whole family for a quick fuck, and now you're trying to pretend like it doesn't matter, because you're a coward, too. You've always been a coward._

'Cas?'

He turned, slowly. Dean stood in the doorway, fully dressed, the lovebites Cas had given him as bright as blood. He rubbed sheepishly at the back of his head.

'I, uh, I really should go down and check on Anna, make sure she's all right. I'll be right back, though. Promise.'

'Thanks,' said Cas. 'I might just lie down again, if that's all right.'

'Sure,' said Dean. He hovered on the threshold, suddenly awkward. 'You'll be OK?'

Cas forced himself to smile. 'I think I can cope for five whole minutes.'

'All right. But if, uh, the kitchen catches fire or something, you know where to find me.'

'Yeah, I do.'

'OK. OK, good.' And as though that decided something, he crossed the space between them, planting a kiss on Cas's forehead. 'I'll be right back,' he said again, and when Cas nodded, Dean smiled and left.

He stood in the bathroom, listening to the front door open and close, followed shortly after by the answering thump as Dean entered his own flat, vanishing down his internal stairs to Impala Records. Only then did Cas open the medicine cabinet, pulling out a small, white bottle of pills. Six months ago, his nightmares had become so bad that he'd finally cracked and gone to the doctor, desperate for something to help. The GP had taken one look at the state he was in – shivering with exhaustion, red-eyed, flinching – and given him a script for Diazepam. Mercifully, it had worked: until this week's incident, which he still didn't fully remember, his last nightmare had been five months ago. Cas had been back to the doctor only once since then, by way of a follow-up when his supply ran out. Frowning, the GP had listened to his worries about a relapse, but hadn't refilled his script until Cas had sworn up and down to use the pills only when necessary, and never continuously for more than a week or so at a time. They weren't a crutch, she said: he needed to deal with the underlying problems causing his anxiety and bad dreams, not become dependent on something that merely erased their symptoms. So far, he'd kept his word.

Now, though, he palmed three pills – a 15 milligram dose, which was technically more than he was meant to take at once, but not meaningfully so – and dry-swallowed them, because if ever he'd needed a bit of extra help to get through a day, then this was it.

He staggered back to the bedroom, stripped the bed, shoved the dirty sheets in the wash, changed the linen, and then climbed into bed, heart pounding.

_Coward,_ the blank voice whispered.  _Miserable fucking whore-freak, why do you deserve to be happy? Why shouldn't you have nightmares? Cry to your lover all you want, it still doesn't change the truth. You should've died in the desert._

Cas muffled his face in the pillow and screamed until the pills kicked in.

 

*

 

As Dean alighted the stairs to the shop, he felt perversely like a teenager trying to sneak home after curfew. Not that he owed Anna any explanation as to where he'd been for the past – he glanced at the wall clock, wincing slightly – three hours, but even so.

As he entered, a customer was leaving; the cowbell clanged as the door swung shut, and suddenly Anna whirled on him, arms crossed over her chest, though the stern effect was somewhat spoiled by the quirk of her lips.

'That was some long lunch.'

'Yeah, well, there was a big line at the police station. Lots of drug dealers, you know.'

'Oh, riiight. So that wasn't you and Cas doing the dirty out in your car earlier?'

Dean went red. 'Ah. So you –'

'Caught the show? Yeah. Pretty much the whole street did.' Anna chuckled, raising an eyebrow. 'Not that I want all the gory details, but was that as hot and heavy as it looked? Because if so,  _goddamn_ .'

'Hotter,' said Dean, before he could stop himself. Anna whistled appreciatively. And then, because he desperately needed to get it off his chest, 'God, Anna, this is so fucked up. I mean, I'm neck-deep in some serious shit right now, and as bad as it is, it's Christmas next to what Cas is dealing with – I mean, hell, instead of a third date, we just went to the police station. Who even does that? I should be passed out in a bar two states away, and he should be catatonic, or failing that, running flat out in the opposite direction.'

She smiled wryly at him. 'And instead?'

'And instead, he just took me upstairs, and – oh, god.' The memory made him shudder; his jaw still ached, though in the best possible way. 'You know the sex you have in dreams, the way everything feels about a thousand times more intense, but real life never matches up to it?'

'That good, huh?'

'Better. I mean, it's like I'm working from a whole new scale, here, and believe me when I say the old one was hardly inadequate. Either he's psychic, or I have a seriously messed up kink for bad situations. Or both, maybe.'

'Or you're just in love with him,' Anna said, teasingly.

Dean opened his mouth. Shut it. Stared at her. He was frozen in place, and as the awkward seconds ticked by, he saw her expression change from amused to puzzled to outright worried. When he remained silent, she actually waved a hand in front of his face.

'Dean? Hello? Earth to Dean!' He flinched, and she laughed, though there was more concern in the sound than humour. 'Jeez, did I break you or something? That wasn't meant to be a stumper.'

He dropped his gaze, unable to meet her eyes, let alone process that simple, four-letter word and what it might mean, or ask himself why he couldn't so much as think it.

'Dean?' Now she really did sound worried. 'Hey, you're kind of freaking me out, here. Say something.'

'Sorry.' He forced himself to look up. 'I, uh –'

To his infinite relief, he was saved by the cowbell: someone entered the shop, and Dean took three steps towards the door before he was even conscious of having moved.

Then he saw who the customer was, and stopped, scowling.

'Hello, darling,' said Crowley. His smile was an oilslick full of dead penguins. 'I brought you a present.' He held up a briefcase.

'Crowley,' Dean growled, so glad of a target, he could almost have kissed the man. 'Y'know, it's funny – I have this vivid memory of telling you to stay the fuck away from me, yet here you are.'

'Easy, precious. I'm not here to bother your blue-eyed boy. Just wanted to  _pay_ my respects, is all.' And he shook the case meaningfully.

All at once, Dean realised what Crowley was carrying: the two thousand dollars he'd asked for up front, which of course would come in cash, complete with a fake betting slip for a real winning horse at a real racetrack, backed for exactly the right odds, because that was how Crowley worked. Just because he didn't like money being traced back to him didn't mean he thought it should appear to come from nothing.

From behind them, Anna coughed meaningfully. Dean jumped – he'd managed to forget her completely – while Crowley looked like someone had just presented him with an unexpected gift.

'And who is this lovely creature? Gracious, Dean, I know you like to switch-hit, but still, I 'd never figured you for a two-for-one man. Or does the left hand not know what the right is doing? And by left hand, I mean –'

'Back off, Crowley. She's got nothing to do with this. She just works here.'

Crowley's brows went up. 'That so? And does she know what kind of man she's working for?' He flicked his gaze to Anna, tutting sadly. 'Trust me, love –' and even from Crowley, Dean flinched at the appellation, '– you're better off keeping clear of this one. He's like a rich man's bidet – pretty to look at, but still full of piss.'

'Thanks,' said Anna, flatly. 'Your concern is touching.'

'Careful, careful.' Crowley's smile was all sharp teeth. 'I'm not as cuddly as I look.' He turned away from her, proffering the case to Dean as though nothing had happened. 'Take it,' he said. 'With my compliments. I've even included the guidebook.' Which meant the details for next Friday were in there, too.

Dean snatched it from him, hating the necessity of it. 'That all?' he snarled.

'Almost.' Crowley folded his hands like a congressman whose many extramarital affairs had never been conclusively proven. 'The event in question is black tie – properly so, though I doubt you'd know the difference if it sat up and gave you a lap dance. I'll have something sent along for you to wear after the weekend. And no,' he added, voice dripping contempt, 'I won't be coming in person again. I'll send a courier.'

Dean smiled sarcastically. 'Small mercies.'

'No, just common sense. Don't want you getting an inflated sense of your own self-importance, do I?' Not waiting for a response, he bowed to Anna. 'A pleasure to meet you, miss –?' He left the question hanging, and when neither Dean nor Anna answered, he shrugged. 'Ah, well. It was worth a shot. See you on Friday, Winchester.'

'Can't wait,' said Dean.

Crowley just laughed, reaching up to slap the cowbell as he exited.

Dean watched him go, the briefcase burning in his hand. He could feel Anna's eyes on him even before he turned to face her.

'What,' she said, 'the actual hell was that?'

Wearily, Dean rubbed his face. 'The actual hell is right.' And then, because he figured he owed her something, 'You know I said I was up to my neck in shit? That would be the man who dumped me there.'

Anna glared, her expression caught between anger and fear. 'Should I be worried about this? Are you in bed with the mob, or something?' She put her hands on her hips. 'Goddamit, is this shop a mob front, Dean? Because if it is –'

Dean laughed, which wasn't exactly the most helpful response; accordingly, Anna smacked him hard on the arm. 'This isn't funny!'

'Ow! I know, all right? I'm laughing at it, not with it.' He paused. 'I think.'

'Yeah, well, I'm not laughing, period. That guy was  _creepy_ , Dean.'

'Gotta agree with you there.'

'Do I want to know what's in that case?'

'Probably not.'

Anna sighed, slumping back against the counter. 'You know what? Screw it. I'm not even going to ask. But if the cops come by with a bunch of questions about disreputable Brits and dead bodies, or whatever the hell kind of racket it is you're involved with, I'm not going to lie for you.'

Dean winced. 'Fair enough.' He fidgeted, shuffling his feet. 'You, uh... You still all right working the rest of the shift? You don't need a break or anything?'

Anna rolled her eyes. 'Do I look like I've won the lottery since lunch time?'

'No?'

'Then yeah, I can finish the shift.'

He was relieved, but still felt obscurely guilty. 'Want me to pick you up some food?'

Her expression softened. 'Thanks, but no. I ate while you were out. Home-made leftovers. Yum!' More gently, she added, 'You go look after Cas. He seems to need it.'

'Yeah.' Dean gulped. 'He really does.'

Anna's look pierced right through him. 'You do, too, I think.'

Almost, Dean asked which thing she meant – that he needed looking after, or that he needed Cas – but didn't, afraid of being told it was both. Instead, he laughed weakly, and said, 'I told you. Men don't like perceptive women.'

'You did,' she acknowledged. 'I guess I'm just cursed with not giving a shit. But if you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.'

'Thanks. And, you know. The same to you, too. Speaking of which, any word on that guy of yours? What's his name, anyway?'

Anna sighed, wistfully tucking a red curl back behind her ear. 'It's Gabe, and no. He's kind of a jerk.'

'I hear there's a bit of that going around. The good news is, it's not incurable.'

'Oh, like you'd know.'

'Touché.'

But she grinned all the same, and this time, it was a real smile, one that transformed her whole face from being merely pretty to astonishingly beautiful. Whoever he was, and whatever his reasons, Dean decided there and then that Gabe was a grade-A idiot.

'You go on up,' said Anna, nodding towards the stairs. 'I'll call if I need something, and if you don't show by closing, I'll come up and get you.'

'Fair enough.'

'Just promise me you'll be wearing pants, OK?'

Dean laughed. 'I'll do my best. Thanks, Anna.'

'It's what you're paying me for, isn't it?' He felt oddly deflated at that, but then she grinned again and added, 'And, you know. We're friends. Which is clearly a sign of terrible judgement on my part, but whatever.'

'Hey, terrible judgement is a valid life voice. It's made me the man I am today.'

Anna groaned. ' _Go_ .'

Throwing her a mock-salute, Dean obeyed, and was halfway up the stairs before he remembered the weight of the case in his hand, and what he was going to do with it. Tomorrow was Saturday: unless he went now, which was desperately unlikely, he wouldn't be able to bank the cash 'till Monday. The thought of keeping it in his flat all weekend made him edgy – which was, he suspected, exactly why Crowley had delivered it today – but he'd held bigger sums for longer and to far worse purposes, and besides, it wasn't like he didn't have Cas to keep him busy.

Entering his bedroom, he was momentarily confused as to why the bed was stripped, until he remembered washing the sheets – and what had made it necessary. Smiling to himself, he set the case aside, pulled the now-clean linen out of the dryer, and remade the bed; not that he planned on sleeping there tonight, but it would be a shame if he finally inveigled Cas over to his flat and the thing was still uninhabitable. With that done, he turned his attention back to the case, clicking it open on top of the covers. As predicted, it contained two thousand dollars in cash, handily bound in several small bundles of twenties; he left one where it was, then divided the rest into two piles, and stashed them in the back of the freezer and in a plastic bag in the toilet cistern, respectively.

The case's other contents were pretty much what he'd expected: a Glock (no serial numbers), two clips of ammo, a side holster, and a set of handwritten instructions that said, simply,  _'Friday, 4pm, the Lucifer on Bone Street. Ask for Dorothy at the back door.'_ Dean scowled at the last detail, which was Crowley down to a tee.  _Introduce myself as a friend of Dorothy. Nice. Subtle._

Scrunching the paper into a ball, he carried it through to the bathroom, pulled out his lighter, and burned the note in the sink. Then, once the ash had rinsed away, he went back to his room, closed the case, and shoved it under the bed.  _Out of sight, out of mind._

On his way to the front door, he stopped for long enough to hunt out his remaining, unopened bottle of bourbon: cough syrup sherry was fine in a pinch, but in the mean time, Cas's need – and his – was clearly for something stronger. 

Leaving his door unlocked, he slipped back across to Cas's silent flat. Setting the bourbon on the counter, he put the soup on a low simmer, took of his jacket, shoes and socks – he felt weird, wearing them inside – and finally went to the bedroom.

Cas lay face down, naked between clean sheets, the scars on his back just visible under the covers. At first, Dean thought he was asleep, but when the floor creaked under his tread, those blue eyes blinked slowly open.

'Hey,' Cas said. 'You're back.'

'I'm back.' Dean smiled. 'You want some company?'

'Depends. Do I have to get up?'

'Not if you don't want to.'

'I don't. Get up, that is. Want to.' He chuckled. 'Comfy.'

Dean frowned. There was something off about Cas's voice, a muzziness that hadn't been there earlier. 'You feeling OK?'

'Feeling? Not feeling. Drifting.' A brief pause. 'Hungry.'

'I put the soup on.'

Cas smiled. 'Soup is nice. Very... soupy.'

Dean stared at him, not knowing whether to be amused or appalled. 'Are you... are you  _high_ ?' 

'Something like that. 'S nice.' With visible effort, Cas rolled onto his side. 'Why? Does it matter?'

Dean thought guiltily of the bourbon he'd brought. 'That depends. What did you take?'

'Pills.'

'You  _what_ ?' Panicked now, Dean knelt at the bedside, reaching out to feel his lover's forehead. 'How many? What kind?'

Cas snorted. 'Worrywort. That's what you are. Sounds like a flower. Some flowers have wort after them, y'know. Mostly the witchy ones.' And then, as if he'd only just registered Dean's concern, he sighed and said, 'Medicine. Just medicine. Anti-anxiety stuff. I've got a script. S' OK! Right dose. Just needed... calm.'

Dean relaxed a little. 'Promise?'

Cas smiled widely, holding up a hand that lolled from his wrist like a drunk spider. 'Pinky swear.'

'What are we, nine?' But he did it anyway, just happy that Cas wasn't in pain, even if that meant he was temporarily stoned on prescription meds.

'On the phone, before,' said Cas, after a moment. 'They're really alive?'

'Of course they're alive. I wouldn't lie about that.'

'I'm going to have to go back there, aren't I.' It wasn't a question, and there was a weird, blank dreaminess to his tone that raised goosebumps along Dean's arms. 'Back to Nevada. See them. Talk to the feds. Talk about... about why I left.'

'You don't have to do anything you don't want to –'

'Not about what I  _want_ .' Cas clicked his teeth. 'What they  _need_ . What I  _owe_ .' 

He fell silent for a moment, frowning slightly. His bruises were closer to brown today than purple, which was a good sign; with any luck, they'd yellow over the weekend, then fade away. Reaching out, Dean gently ran his hand over Cas's good cheek, stroking with his thumb.

'Tell me about your mother,' Cas said, suddenly.

Dean flinched, snatching his hand back as though he'd been bitten.

'What? Why?'

'Why do you think?' And then Cas blinked, some of his usual clarity returning with the distress in Dean's voice. 'I've said the wrong thing haven't I?'

'No, no.' Dean swallowed, forcing himself to extend his hand again, inordinately relieved when Cas took hold of it. 'No, it's OK.' He looked away. 'She died when I was four, is all. There isn't much to tell. I mean, I remember her, but... faded.'

'Oh.' Cas squeezed his hand. 'I'm sorry. I didn't know.'

'How could you have done? It's not like I've mentioned it before.'

He fell silent, suddenly lost for words. His heart was a snarl of knotted strings; whatever he did to pull one free, another one always snagged, always hurt. He was sick of it. God, could he maybe set his own problems aside for five fucking seconds and actually help someone else? He should have just told Cas what he remembered of her, left the harder truth for later. His lover didn't need more pain.

'Dean?'

He looked up. Almost shyly, Cas asked, 'Get in with me? Please? I don't want to do anything, I just... it would be nice to hold you.'

Dean nodded, his throat suddenly so tight with unshed tears, he couldn't speak. Pulling off his clothes, he climbed in, putting his back to his lover's warm chest, and wondering, as Cas snuggled close, which one of them was really comforting the other.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

The rest of the evening was quiet, slow and gentle. They hugged in bed, silent at first, then tentatively broaching the neutral topic of books and movies. Cas was mildly horrified by Dean's historic aversion to reading, while Dean, in turn, professed disbelief at Cas's cinematic illiteracy. A teasing compromise was reached: for every three chapters of  _Pride and Prejudice_ that Dean agreed to read, Cas would watch at least the first half hour of an action movie of Dean's choosing, beginning with something called  _Die Hard_ . This lead Dean to denounce Cas's lounge as a literal bed of nails, insisting any films be watched at his place, or, at the very least, in bed. Cas mounted a brief defence of his couch, though more from duty than any real sense that the thing was actually comfortable, then caved, but only on the condition that Dean be the one to get up and bring them food.

Feigning drudgery, Dean complied, and soon they were sitting upright in bed with their backs to the wall, eating homemade chicken soup and accusing each other of hogging the blankets. The only interruption came at five, when Anna knocked on the front door and announced, loudly enough to be heard in the bedroom, that Dean had to come lock up the shop, and did he want her to show up to tomorrow, and to not even think about answering until he'd put some clothes on.

'You know,' said Cas, smiling, 'I think I'm starting to like her.'

Dean kissed his cheek. 'Apparently, I have good taste in people.'

He stepped back into his jeans – and  _just_ his jeans, which Cas found almost unbearably sexy – and went to speak to Anna, while Cas tidied up their bowls and spoons and, shrugging into his dressing gown, took them out to the kitchen. There was still a sizeable quantity of soup on the stove, and it seemed a shame to waste it. Still shy, but much more himself than he'd been that morning, he padded over to the hall and hovered until Anna noticed him. 

'Oh!' she said, clearly surprised to see him, despite the fact that it was his flat. 'Hi, Cas. Sorry I freaked you out this morning. Think we can start again?'

He smiled and, to Dean's obvious approval, held out his hand, which Anna shook. 'Sure. I'm sorry I was so, ah, freaked. I'm normally very sensible.' He hesitated, then forced himself to be brave. 'Do you want to come in for some soup? Dean made it, and it's actually pretty good – there's more than we can eat, and it seems a waste not to share it.' He looked at Dean, belatedly aware that his lover might object. 'If that's OK with you?'

'Why wouldn't it be?' He turned to Anna. 'You want in?'

'You can cook?' she said dubiously, but with a half-grin that suggested she was teasing.

'Yeah, yeah. Wonders will never cease. Come have some damn soup.'

And so she did; and even though he'd already eaten, Cas found himself having seconds, delighted by the novelty of eating with company. After a moment of indecision, Dean did likewise, and poured them each a glass of bourbon, too, which was just as warming as the soup, but in a different way. They sat at the table and talked, and someone – Cas thought it must have been Dean – turned his radio on, filling the background with soft, lively jazz. And really, it should have been awkward, with him in a robe, Dean shirtless and thoroughly lovebitten, and Anna a virtual stranger, but somehow it was the exact opposite: everything felt simple and friendly and right, and as he tidied the plates away, he realised this was the only time he'd had two guests in the flat at once.

'So, Cas,' said Anna, when he sat down again. 'Not to pry or anything, but are you opening the bookshop tomorrow, or taking another day off?'

The question surprised him, but not unpleasantly so. 'Honestly, I hadn't given it much thought. Why do you ask?'

'Anna,' said Dean, his tone slightly warning, but Anna just waved a hand and ignored him, shooting Cas a conspiratorial grin.

'It's just, you know, it seems a shame to have it closed, and I have this friend, Charlie – she's looking for part-time work, a total geek – and, well, I was wondering if you'd ever thought of hiring someone on, like Dean did with me.'

'Huh.' Cas propped his chin in his hand, considering. 'That's an interesting proposition.' He didn't make much money from the store, but then, he'd never needed to. And particularly now – he shied away from the details, refusing to pop the evening's peaceful bubble – it might be useful to have someone who could mind it for him, if only temporarily. 'Sure. Why not?'

Anna's face lit up. 'You're serious?'

He blinked at her, puzzled. 'Why wouldn't I be?'

'I don't know. I guess I just figured it was a long shot. I mean, you don't really know me.'

'No,' said Cas, still not getting it, 'but Dean trusts you, and I trust him, which means I trust you by extension. Besides, it's not like I'm running an electronics store or selling chemicals or anything else she could really screw up, and honestly, who'd try to rip off a second hand bookstore? I'm not exactly taking a massive risk, here. So, yeah. If you think she's good for it, then get her to come by some time, and we'll take it from there.'

Anna sat back in her chair, smiling thoughtfully. She sipped her bourbon, raising the glass to him. 'Well, thanks, Castiel. I'll do just that.' She glanced from Cas to Dean and back again, and if her gaze lingered a moment longer on Dean's torso than was strictly necessary, well, Cas was hardly going to begrudge her the view. He was certainly enjoying it. 'You two,' she said, and shook her head, chuckling.

'Us two what?' said Dean, when no further clarification was forthcoming.

Anna grinned. 'Oh, nothing. You're just a bit adorable, is all.'

Dean almost looked offended, which by itself was enough to make Cas smile. 'I've been called a lot of things in my time, but that was never one of them.'

' _I_ think you're adorable,' said Cas, emboldened by bourbon.

Dean blushed bright red. 'Yeah, well, shut up about it,' he mumbled, burying his face in his glass. 'M' a very serious person.'

Anna hooted with laughter. 'You see?' she said. 'The defence rests. And so –' she added, glancing at the clock, '– should I, especially if I'm getting here tomorrow for 9am.'

'Oh, no,' said Dean, as she rose to her feet, 'no, no, you don't get to go out on that note. You stay here until I've embarrassed you back!'

'All in good time,' said Anna, sweetly. 'Thanks for the soup, though! It was lovely.' She turned to Cas. 'And thank _you_ for inviting me in. This was... really nice.' 

'Yeah,' said Cas, his smile a response to hers. 'It was.'

Still muttering imprecations, Dean saw her to the door; she waved at Cas over his shoulder, and then was gone. Dean stared out into the evening, a puzzled look on his face as he turned back to Cas. 'Why do I feel like I'm forgetting something?'

'Did you lock the store?'

'Shit!' And he bounded away to do just that.

While he was gone, Cas cleared the table, ladled the leftover soup into Tupperware, and was just about to start the washing up when he heard the door close. A rhythm of approaching footsteps, and before Cas could turn, Dean slipped his arms slowly around his waist.

'Adorable, am I?' Dean murmured, kissing the back of his neck.

Cas leaned against him, wrapping Dean's arms in his own. 'Just a little.'

'Well. I guess I can live with that.'

The sound of Ella Fitzgerald drifted out from the radio; the volume was too low for Cas to catch the lyrics, but her warm voice was unmistakeable. A feeling of utter peace suffused him, followed a moment later by the predictable stab of guilt, though for once, the combination of medication, alcohol and pleasure all combined to banish it almost instantly. He laughed.

Dean kissed his neck. 'What's funny?'

'This. Today.' He closed his eyes. 'I feel like I'm floating, and I don't know why. I mean, I know  _why_ , it just doesn't seem like it should be possible. Everything's been so up and down, like heaven and hell, you know? I mean, this morning was incredible, and then at the station, I felt like I was dying, or that I deserved to die –' they both held each other tighter at that, though Dean didn't interrupt, '– and then it was amazing again.  _You_ made it amazing. And then I felt so guilty about feeling good that, while you were gone, I screamed into a pillow and dosed myself just to feel sane. And then you came back, and you made me soup, and I think I made a friend, and now I'm floating –' he turned in the circle of Dean's arms, until they were face to face, foreheads touching, Cas's arms around his neck, '– and I don't understand how this can be one of the worst days of my life and still be the best, but it is, it  _is_ . And it's all because of you.' 

Dean leaned in and kissed him, and as the music played, they started to sway, half-dancing in the kitchen of a house that had never once felt like home, but which now, suddenly, did.

 

*

 

Long after Cas had fallen asleep, Dean lay awake and stared at the ceiling, replaying the day's events. Heaven and hell, like Cas had said; like a carousel made in parody of human nature, spinning them through sex and solace, blood and breaking, rage and laughter, lunacy and lust.  _And what about the other thing?_ his traitorous hindbrain whispered. He shied away from it, unnerved. No wonder he couldn't sleep. He should get up, maybe, drink some milk or watch TV or something, or – 

Beside him, Cas snored softly, rolling onto his side. By moonlight, he had no bruises, only skin that was silvered or shadowed, the line of his neck and shoulder rendered as a single, blue-white curve, and Dean, who'd wasted god knew how many years of his life behaving as though arousal was something you either eased with porn or sought in bars, was stricken by the beauty of it. He wanted to kiss him awake, and watch him sleep, and curl up in his arms. He wanted those bright blue eyes to snap open, wanted Cas to touch him and fuck him and hold him and tell him, impossibly, that it was going to be all right; that Crowley wouldn't win, that he wouldn't have to kill anyone, that they'd handle Nevada together. And then he felt sick to his stomach, because Cas was the one who needed his help, not the other way around, and just how selfish a bastard was he, to try and pretend otherwise? 

_Selfish, that's what he is. Always ungrateful._

The memory curled through him like smoke. Dean shut his eyes, but it didn't help: the problem was inside him, and always had been. He was greedy: he wanted what he couldn't have and didn't deserve, which most of all was for someone, anyone at all, to want him that way, too. But he'd learned at twelve years old exactly how stupid a wish that was, and nothing since then had ever disproved the lesson. You wanted, and the world just took, so all you could really do was give, because at least then the loss happened on your own terms. 

The Christmas they stayed with Uncle Bobby was the best holiday of Dean's pre-adolescent life. Sammy had been all of eight years old and deep down, Dean knew his brother didn't believe in Santa, but somehow he'd understood that unless he pretended he did, Dean couldn't, either. So Sam had gone around asking dumb questions about carrots and reindeer and chimneys, and Bobby had silenced their father's derisive snort with a serious answer, and somehow, that did the trick of granting them permission to play things out. For two days, they'd pretended: Bobby had bought a tree, helped Dean make ornaments for it out of pine cones and old engine parts; they'd strung up candy canes and, at John's grudging insistence, made eggnog, 'because if we're going to all this trouble anyways, I should at least get a damn drink out of it.'

And then, on Christmas Eve, Dean made the mistake of sneaking out of bed. Even then, he'd known there wasn't a big chance they'd get any real presents, fake faith in Santa notwithstanding: John Winchester liked to travel light, and extraneous crap like toys took up precious space in the car. But Bobby had made him hopeful, and he'd been excited, and curious, and as he crept through the front room to the tree, he suddenly heard his father and uncle talking on the porch.

Talking about  _him_ . 

He heard his dad call him selfish, and even knowing the accompanying hiss of a freshly opened beer was a bad sign, that he should just go back to bed, he couldn't make himself move. Instead, he crouched in the dark and listened, a skinny boyshadow tucked behind Bobby's lounge, and by the time he realised his error, it was already too late.

'What nonsense are you talking about now?' Bobby grumbled. 'Dean ain't selfish.'

'Shows what you know. Every place we go, he's gotta start mouthing off about something, how he doesn't like the motel, or the house, or the school, or the way some other kid looks at him, never mind I'm putting clothes on his back, food in his mouth. Selfish, that's what he is. Always ungrateful.'

'Aw hell, John, kids are meant to be selfish. It's how you know they're normal. 'Sides, the way you move around, it's not like you can blame him.'

'Can't I?' And even though he couldn't see it, Dean still knew the dangerous gleam was right there in his father's eyes, the one that meant the next bit of backchat was risking knuckles. 'You tell that to his mother.'

'His  _mother?_ ' Bobby was incredulous. 'You're drunk, John. Go lie down before you say something we'll both regret.'

'Like hell I will. Mary's death –'

'Mary's death was a goddamn tragedy, is what. It should never have happened.'

'And it wouldn't have happened,' John snapped, 'if Dean wasn't so damn careless.'

There was a poisonous silence. When he finally broke it, Bobby's voice was a growl. 'You care to elaborate on that?'

'Since you ask.' The sound of a beer can crumpling. 'Two days before the fire, the damn kid was fooling around with the broom, I don't know why, but he knocked the smoke alarm clean off the ceiling. Broke it all to hell, and there wasn't money for a new one, so yeah, Bobby, I'm gonna blame him a little, 'cos in all this time, he's never once put it together, never once acted like he understood, or apologised –'

'John, you ignorant fuck, he was  _four_ ! Probably didn't even know what a smoke alarm  _was_ , let alone why it mattered, and you're still mad he won't blame himself for what ain't his fault? What the hell is wrong with you?'

'What's wrong with me is, I got one good kid who's never gonna know his mother, and one who didn't deserve to.'

The sound of breaking glass echoed through the darkness. Dean's cheeks were hot with shame, his stomach twisting in knots, but he knew by now how to cry in silence, and still, he couldn't move, rooted to the spot as Bobby yelled, 'He's your  _son_ , dammit! If you love him at all –'

And John asked, 'What if I don't?'

Dean didn't remember how he got back to bed that night. One minute, he was behind the lounge, and the next he was under the blankets, huddled in a ball and trying not calculate the exact degree to which everything broken in his and Sam's life was his fault. All at once, he realised he had no memory of his mother saying she loved him; he felt like she must have done so a dozen times, maybe even a hundred – he could almost feel the echo of it, though he no longer remembered her voice – but now it was gone, and he finally understood why John wouldn't say it for her.

Ignoring Cas's sleepy protest, Dean stumbled out of bed, rummaging blindly for his phone. It was still in his jeans pocket, and he grabbed it with shaking hands. Before he could lose his nerve, he hurried out to the lounge and dialled Sam's new number, biting his lip as the seconds ticked by and his brother still didn't answer.

'C'mon, c'mon,' he muttered – and then, like a miracle, someone picked up.

'Dean?' Sam's voice was bleary with sleep. 'What time is it?'

'Uh.' He hadn't even looked, but he could guess. 'Late. Sorry.'

'Is something wrong?' Sam's voice sharpened. 'What's happened? Are you OK? Did Crowley –'

'It's not about Crowley.' Dean ran a hand down his face. 'I just needed to ask you something, is all.'

A pause. 'Are you drunk?'

'No.'

'Are you in hospital?'

'No.'

'Are you in jail?'

'What? No!'

'Then what the hell's so important it couldn't wait 'till morning?'

'It's about when we were kids.'

Sam sighed. 'What about when we were kids, Dean?'

'About dad.' Dean licked his lips. 'Did he ever, you know... when you were little, did he ever say, uh...'

'What, Dean? Spit it out.'

The words came out in a rush. 'Did he ever say he loved you?'

Dead silence. Then, confusedly, 'Yeah, Dean. Of course he did. Why would you even ask that?'

'No reason,' Dean said, softly. 'Night, Sam.'

'Night.'

His brother hung up, and Dean lowered the phone. It slipped from his fingers, thudding softly against the rug, and just like when he was twelve years old, he started crying, quiet tears cold against hot cheeks.

'Who was that on the phone?'

He tensed, but didn't turn, too ashamed of himself to want Cas to see him like this.

'Just Sam,' he said, trying to keep the grief from his voice. 'It's nothing. Go back to bed.'

'It's not nothing.' Cas padded closer, coming around until he stood in front of Dean. 'Hey,' he said. 'Hey. Look at me.'

Slowly, Dean raised his head. Cas rested a palm against his cheek, frowning, his eyes made lambent by the glow of the streetlamp filtering through the window.

'This isn't nothing,' Cas repeated. He stroked the tears away with his thumb. 'What is it?'

Dean shook his head, half-laughing with the effort of not crying, and when Cas pulled him close, he wrapped his arms around him, burying his head in his lover's shoulder. _His lover._ Cas was his lover, and Dean loved him, and it was the stupidest, most selfish thing in the world, because the only thing he knew about love was that he didn't deserve it. 

Cas held him tighter, stroking his hair. 'Hey. It's all right.'

Dean pressed his head to his collarbone. 'Why does everything have to be so damn hard?'

'You're asking the wrong person.' Cas kissed his temple. 'Come back to bed.'

 So he did, curled up against his lover's chest, his own too tight to get the words out, and after what felt like eternity, he finally fell asleep.  

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

The next morning, Cas tried to get Dean to tell him what was wrong, why he'd been crying alone at 3am after phoning his brother, but to no avail. Dean dodged the more subtle inquiries by pretending they were about something else, and when Cas finally asked outright, he stood his ground, refusing to be drawn.

'It was nothing,' he said, angrily. 'It won't happen again. I'm fine. Please, Cas, can you just let it go?'

'All right,' said Cas, startled and a little stung by the sharpness of his tone. 'Sorry.'

Dean flinched. 'Don't apologise,' he said. 'It's not your fault.' And as if to prove it, he came over and kissed him deeply. Cas, determined to regain control of the situation, responded by grabbing both his wrists and pinned him up against the wall, and as Dean gasped and shuddered, it occurred to Cas that, if he were to ask for the truth in his bedroom voice – which is to say, clearly, authoritatively and while making Dean moan – he might just get an honest answer. He could feel Dean's hardness pressing through his jeans, which were all he was wearing; could feel, too, the way his hips thrust desperately forwards whenever Cas shifted his weight, and decided to test this theory with an experiment.

'All right,' Cas said, putting his mouth to Dean's ear, loving the way it made him shiver. 'No apologies.' He switched his grip on Dean's wrists, holding them both above his head with a single hand while the other roamed. 'After all, you were rude to me.' He pinched a nipple; Dean bit his lip and whimpered. 'Very rude.' His fingers moved lower, undoing the jeans; the fabric slipped marginally down Dean's hips as Cas reached for him. 'I'm hurt.'

And he was, too, he realised; neither his arousal nor Dean's submission had altered that. It lent his control a dangerous edge. He'd trusted Dean with more of himself than he'd ever shown to another person, and even knowing that Dean trusted him sexually, it upset him to think he hadn't earned some emotional trust, too. Which was why he had to be so careful, here, to demonstrate that trustworthiness rather than proving the opposite: just because he could maybe make Dean confess his secrets didn't mean he should.

He slid his hand up and down Dean's shaft, occasionally darting his fingers underneath to stroke the tender skin of his perineum. 'Do you like this?' he murmured.

The answer was breathless with lust. 'Yes.'

'You like me touching you?'

'Yes.'

Cas pulled back a little, watching his face. 'Tell me what you want.'

Dean's eyes, which had been closed, snapped open, wide and green as lily-pads. 'What I want?'

'From me,' said Cas. 'What do you want me to do to you?' He leaned in again, quickening his strokes to match Dean's breathing. 'I could fuck you hard or slow. Tie you up. Tease you until you screamed. I could take you in the shower again, would you like that? I could bring you off right here, or leave you aching all day, wishing I had. I could –'

'Go down on me,' Dean blurted.

Cas smiled lazily, though he was so turned on by the answer, it took some considerable strength of will to restrain himself. 'You want me on my knees?'

'Yes.'

'Tasting you?'

'Yes.'

'Right now?'

' _Yes_ ,' Dean begged, and that was when Cas kissed him, releasing his wrists as he trailed his mouth down Dean's neck, across his chest and the flat, hard muscles of his stomach, kneeling like a penitent. He paused, looking up at his lover, savouring his anticipation, the way he'd put his palms flat to the wall, as though Cas held him still; and perhaps he did.

Cas licked his lips, and slowly took Dean in his mouth. He'd held off doing this until now out of concern for his bruised face, but as of this morning, it no longer hurt, and even had it done, the throb and pulse of his own arousal as Dean moaned for him would have rendered the pain as nothing. He worked slowly, shameless in his own enjoyment, and when Dean finally reached for him, his fingers gliding through Cas's hair, he growled with pleasure, glancing up to see the answering ecstasy on Dean's face. After that, he didn't look away, hypnotised by the way his lover's eyes would alternately close, as though it was too much for him, then spring open again, fixing on Cas in a wordless plea for release.

Cas drew it out as long as he could, and when Dean finally climaxed, he cried Cas's name. He swallowed, the taste lingering in his throat, and stood, and kissed his lover; and when Dean's hands slipped around his waist, as they always did, Cas surprised them both by directing his touch upwards, towards his scars.

Dean pulled back, looking him in the eyes. 'Are... are you sure?'

'Yes.' And then, because Dean needed to hear the explanation almost as much as Cas needed to give it, 'You don't make me feel ashamed of them, or fragile. You make me feel like I deserve –' _love,_ he almost said, but it was too enormous a word, and too soon; he choked on it, and said instead, '– to be touched.'

Slowly, Dean slid his hands up Cas's back, his fingers finding every hard ridge, every knot, caressing every scar with the same gentle reverence he showed the rest of his body. Cas kissed him again, passionately, but even when Dean's grip tightened, those square, clever fingers clutching and digging at his skin, the old panic stayed dead, and he almost sobbed with relief.

When they finally pulled apart, Dean was blushing violently. 'Cas, about last night, I – I'm sorry. You're right. It wasn't nothing. I just –' he gulped, turning even redder, '– it just scared me, is all, and I need some time – I don't know how to say it, and I didn't think – with everything, I mean, it just didn't seem like I should –'

And suddenly, Cas understood. 'You didn't want to burden me.'

'Yes.' Dean sagged with relief.

Cas laughed and kissed him. 'You are such a beautiful idiot.' He cupped his cheek fondly. 'Dean, I already told you: I might be messed up, but I don't have a monopoly on problems. The fact that I'm having a hard time doesn't mean you're not allowed to be upset, too. You're allowed to want help, to ask _me_ to help. We're allowed to need each other. That's what –' _love is_ '– this is. Isn't it?'

'Yeah,' said Dean, hoarsely. 'Yeah, it is.'

They stared at each other, _into_ each other, and Cas could hear his heart in his ears, because he loved Dean Winchester, loved him like he had never loved anyone in his life, and what sort of person fell in love in under a week, anyway? Someone so sad and desperate and damaged as to find basic human compassion miraculous, that was who; or worse still, someone with such a profoundly unsatisfying sexual history as to assume their first truly good fuck meant a happily ever after. God, he was so pathetic; and the worst thing was that, even knowing the love was illusory, a symptom of his own catastrophic pathology, he was still relieved to feel it; had feared, deep down, that he was incapable of even that much connection. _Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, Castiel. And you were never an angel._

He realised he was shaking, and stepped back sharply, not trusting himself to speak.

'Cas?' The sudden confusion in Dean's voice was almost physically painful.

 _Say something. Anything._ 'Time,' he rasped. 'We should – it's almost nine, I mean – we should get ready. Get downstairs.'

'Oh.' Dean ran a hand through his hair, and with that single, familiar action, it was like he'd put on a mask, the naked, blushing vulnerability of a moment earlier replaced by cockiness. 'Sure, yeah, whatever. I'll go get dressed.' He hesitated minutely. 'I'll, uh, see you for lunch?'

'Of course,' said Cas, hating the uncertainty of the question, hating Dean's visible relief. 'Just come get me, OK?' And he made himself kiss his cheek.

Apparently satisfied, Dean went back to the bedroom. Cas waited until he was gone, then braced his hands on the table, perilously close to tears. _This doesn't have to change anything. It's not real, anyway; it's not like it matters._

But it did. Of course it did. Even if it wasn't love, whatever he felt was strong enough that Dean could touch his scars; that he _wanted_ Dean to touch his scars. God, and he was still so shamefully hard, too; and it would be so easy just to go into the bedroom and kiss him, push him down and pull off his clothes and –

 _No._ He shook himself, straightened and counted his breaths and, when that didn't work, dredged up his ugliest memories from yesterday, flung his injured family at himself like a shock of cold water. That worked a little too well: the guilt and fear came flooding back, and for a moment, he was paralysed all over again. Somehow, he'd allowed himself to forget that the Fellowship siege was still ongoing; that even though his family were, for an extremely generous value of the word, safe, Brother Tiberius remained at large, and was threatening other innocents with his cruelty. And now, the FBI knew who he was; they were coming for him, to speak to him, and he was neither brave nor good enough to view the prospect with anything other than terror.

Just then, Dean returned, his emergence sudden enough that Cas couldn't even try to hide his distress, and his self-hatred at how completely he melted into his lover's concerned embrace was equalled only by the strength of his relief that it was even an option, that he didn't have to be alone in this.

'The Fellowship,' he stammered. 'Can you track the news again? I know my family's out, but if anything happens –'

'Of course.' Dean held him close, and when he finally pulled away, Cas felt the separation like a physical ache in his chest. _He doesn't love me. He never will. Oh, god, I'm such a fool._

He suddenly remembered a book he'd read as a teenager, an old, dogeared paperback John Aveline had given him. It was long gone, burned when Brother Tiberius found his hidden book cache, but all these years later, he still remembered it vividly enough to raise the hairs on his neck. It was called _The Killing Choice_ , an obscure work of fantasy by an equally obscure author. The protagonist, Virian, was a famous soldier from a warrior-caste rich with its own mythologies, chief among which was the titular killing choice: the decision, when one was mortally pierced with an arrow or sword, to either remove the weapon and risk instant death, or else to leave it in, and potentially die, by slow degrees, from poisoning or sepsis. On the battlefield, Virian counselled his troops to take the quick option; but after being shot and taken prisoner by the enemy commander, Severin, he defied his own logic, leaving an arrowhead lodged in his chest in a bid to live and return to war.

But slowly, impossibly, Virian and Severin fell in love, eventually plotting their mutual escape to a neighbouring, peaceful country. To the teenage Cas, still struggling with his attraction to men, the book had been revelatory, not least because of the idea that Virian's conflicted loyalty, and not his sexual orientation, was what made the relationship with Severin taboo. But of course, it all went wrong for them: having thought himself long forgotten, Virian was rescued by his men on the eve of their planned escape, and in the ensuing chaos, Severin was killed. Rather than live without him, Virian ripped the arrowhead from his chest, and as he died, he finally understood that for him, the killing choice was never about enduring a mortal wound, but his decision to love what he could never have.

It had been years before Cas, in thinking of the book, had realised how upset he was, that a story which normalised love between men – the first such book he'd ever read – was also one in which both heroes died tragically; it was why, despite how much it meant to him, he'd never tracked down a replacement copy. But now, as Dean stepped away from him, Cas felt the terrible weight of his loneliness and inadequacy settle on him like chains, and knew, with an absolute, visceral certainty, that he, like Virian, had made the fateful killing choice: to love without hope of being loved, until he either tore his heart from his chest, or poisoned himself with grief.

 

*

 

'What's the news?' said Anna, peering over Dean's shoulder.

'Nothing,' he said, a little too quickly. Which was, at least as far as his promise to Cas went, true: after yesterday's dramatic events, the Fellowship siege had descended into an uneasy stalemate as both sides withdrew to lick their wounds. Forced into an uneasy alliance, the Nevada police, the ATF, and the FBI were still debating what course of action to take, while Brother Tiberius and his followers had released a savagely-worded statement about the actions of 'heretics, sinners and traitors' and the dire consequences soon to be visited upon any and all who helped them. There were also unconfirmed rumours that several Fellowship members had been wounded during the exchange of fire, but of course, Tiberius was hardly going to admit to it; and in the mean time, the police barrier – and, as a consequence, the news crews swarming the scene like flies – had all been pushed back in a futile attempt to mitigate the range of the Fellowship's weapons. (Futile, in Dean's view, because if they hadn't guessed their capabilities right the first time, then there was no guarantee they'd done so this time, either.)

Anna crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. 'Really. There is no news? None at all? The entire world is magically at a standstill?'

'You know what I mean.'

'What I _know_ is that you're acting shifty as fuck,' said Anna, pointedly. 'What is up with you today? Did you and Cas have a fight or something?'

'No!' _But something's upset him, and I don't know what._

'Well, good. Because I stand by last night's assessment.' She grinned sweetly. 'You two are _adorable_.'

'So help me, Anna, if you say one more word –'

The cowbell jangled, cutting him off. Dean glanced up to see who it was, looked back to Anna, then did a double take. All the blood drained from his face.

'Oh, _shit_ ,' he whispered.

Anna looked at him blankly. 'What?'

Dean swallowed. 'Anna, I need you to do me a favour.'

'What?'

'Go tell Cas the FBI guy is my ex from the army, that I'm sorry, and that I'll explain later.'

Anna physically choked. 'Your _what?_ '

Dean grit his teeth. 'Just do it. _Please_.'

And, for a miracle, Anna went, leaving Dean to stare helplessly into the oncoming storm that was Agent Daniel Lassiter, who was staring back with all the smug self-vindication of an avenging fury. Apart from the suit, he was the same as ever: tall, black-haired, with sharp brown eyes and milk-white skin, and a languid easiness to his stride that made him look permanently like a well-fed apex predator – which, both professionally and sexually, he was.

Dean gulped.

Lassiter's smile was lazy and sharp, like a well-oiled flick knife. 'Dean Winchester,' he said, in that deceptively silky voice that simultaneously warmed and chilled. 'A scapegrace running a record store. Wonders will never cease!'

'Danny,' said Dean, because it was the only weapon he had to hand, however petty. 'No, sorry, _Special Agent_ Danny. How can I help you? Here to improve your taste in music? And here I thought you were a lost cause.'

'I think you've got us confused,' said Lassiter. 'I'm not the one who tucked tail and wound up in _Monument_ .' He pronounced the word like it was a synonym for _dead rat_.

Dean forced his most annoying grin. 'And yet, here you are. Tell me, did you volunteer for this assignment, or did you just piss someone off?'

That clearly hit a nerve, but Lassiter recovered quickly. 'Neither. You'd be surprised how often my having fucked you has failed to constitute a career advantage.'

If comebacks were blows, that one was a suckerpunch. Dean flinched, and more than Lassiter's triumphant smirk, he hated how much he deserved it. 'Come on, then,' he said. 'Show me your badge. I know you're dying to.'

'Just a little,' said Lassiter, and reaching into his inside pocket, he did just that. 'Special Agent Lassiter. I'm here to speak to Castiel Novak about his connection to the Fellowship of the Righteous Angels, and specifically his relationship to Brother Tiberius, aka Martin Bruckner.'

'And you're in my shop because –?'

'Because,' said Lassiter, smiling like Dean had just fed him exactly the straight line he wanted, 'the Bureau is aware of your... talent, shall we say, for complicating matters.'

'Oh, really? And who told them that, exactly?'

'I did.'

'In your capacity as a neutral, fair-minded professional, or in your capacity as a petty dickbag?'

'In my capacity,' said Lassiter, sharply, 'as someone whose life you ruined.'

'Doesn't look ruined to me,' said Dean, though he knew exactly how unfair that was.

'I'm resilient,' Lassiter said, dryly. 'My skills proved to be very transferable. Unlike, for instance, yours.'

Abruptly, Dean was tired of the fencing. 'Danny, look. What I did – I still don't know if it was on purpose, or if it was a mistake, or if I was just hoping we'd get caught, but however fucked up I was at the time, that doesn't make it right. I know what I said back in Sacramento, how I acted, and I'm sorry, I really am – you have every reason in the world to hate me, and that's fine, that's how it should be. But if you take any of this out on Cas, then I swear to god, I will rain fire and fucking brimstone down on you, OK? I will burn you out of whatever comfy burrow you've built yourself at Quantico, and I will do it with a song in my heart. Probably something by AC/DC.'

For a long moment, Lassiter was silent. Then he smiled, the expression reminiscent of nothing so much as a shark. 'Let me explain something here, Dean. You're in no position to demand anything of me, because you have no leverage. I could arrest you right now for threatening me, and by extension the agency I represent, and you want to know the only reason why I won't? Because you're pathetic. You're a white trash grunt with daddy issues and a history of alcoholism who's failed at everything he's ever attempted, legally or illegally, up to and including suicide, and who will undoubtedly fail at this, too, whatever it's meant to be.' He gestured disparagingly at the record shop. 'So whatever I say to Castiel Novak – however I choose to deal with him – I want you to understand, with absolute clarity, how very little you matter.'

Dean felt like he was going to throw up. 'And yet,' he somehow managed, 'you've still gone out of your way to involve me. I might be a grunt, but it seems to me that, if I really didn't matter, you'd have gone straight to the bookshop. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, do not verbally harass the man caught sucking your cock in the mess hall.'

Two high spots of colour appeared on Lassiter's cheeks. 'Just tell me where he is,' he hissed.

And suddenly Cas said, 'I'm right here,' and stepped out from the back of the shop.

Any pleasure Dean might have taken in Lassiter's shock was utterly annihilated by his own appalled horror. How long had Cas been there? How much had he heard? Turning, he could just see Anna peeping out from the stairwell, one hand clapped to her mouth in utter mortification, and realised instantly what must have happened. Once she'd delivered his message, it didn't really matter which of them had been more curious, whose idea it had been to go back up Cas's stairs, across the front landing and into Dean's flat, creeping silently down to Impala Records and eavesdropping on his conversation with Lassiter; what mattered was that they'd learned more about his sordid history he'd ever wanted either of them to know, and just at that moment, he'd cheerfully have slit his own throat if it meant undoing the last ten minutes forever.

Lassiter, however, was made of sterner stuff. Folding his own embarrassment away like a used handkerchief, he looked Cas up and down, and said, 'Mr Novak, I'm Special Agent Lassiter with the FBI. I'd like to ask you to come with me; I have some questions to ask you about the Fellowship of the Righteous Angels.'

'Of course,' said Cas. 'How long will it take?'

'That all depends on you. Hopefully no more than an hour or so.' He paused. 'It would, I think, be better all round if Mr Winchester remained here.'

Almost imperceptibly, Cas's gaze flicked to Dean. 'I can see that.'

Dean gripped the edge of the table, fighting nausea. _Oh god, Cas, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, you shouldn't have heard it like that, I should have told you everything, I should have –_

'Excellent!' said Lassiter. 'Well, let's get this over and done with. And Dean?' he added, as Cas walked to his side. ' _Stay_.'

Dean watched them leave together. Heard the cowbell ring their exit, the ludicrous clamour so loud in the silence, it was like bombs falling. A sick, black knot was tangled in the pit of his stomach, and before he could get a hold of himself, he was moving towards the door.

'Dean?' Anna whispered, finally creeping out from the staircase. 'Dean, I'm so sorry –'

He wrenched down the cowbell, gripping it hard enough to hurt. And then, with an inarticulate yell, he threw it at the nearest shelf.

A splintering smash of plastic and polycarbonate. Bits of broken CD flew everywhere, and for a raw, red moment, Dean could have easily wrecked the whole shop. But then he saw the look on Anna's face – remembered Lassiter's biting prediction that he'd fail at this, too – and all at once, the rage went out of him.

He dropped to his knees, his head in his hands, and sobbed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is curious, The Killing Choice isn't a real book - just something I made up. The *idea* of the killing choice, though, comes from my own experiences in high school. Without going into all the sordid details, there was a moment - and I remember it very vividly - when I decided to continue with a relationship I *knew* meant more to me than the other person (I was in love, and knew definitively that they weren't), because I felt it would still be better than not having them at all. It didn't exactly feel like snapping a rib, but there was a definite sensation that something inside me had broken, and that I was ignoring it, and part of me thought, with this weird, dreamy clarity, "this was a killing choice". And it was. And ever since then, I've always wanted to write it into something. And now I have. So, there.


	16. Chapter 16

If Dean's Impala was a mako shark, then Lassiter's hire car was a parrot fish: gaudy, slow and utterly stupid. The whole thing rattled with every gear change, engine whining whenever Lassiter tried – and, usually, failed – to overtake someone, and as far as Cas was concerned, its only redeeming quality was the extent to which it was visibly making Lassiter's life miserable. They drove in an awkward, uncomfortable silence punctuated only by the occasional grunted expletive; Monument's traffic was unpredictable at the best of times, and the local FBI field office – Cas had been dimly aware there was one – turned out to be in Delacroix, which was way on the the other side of town.

And that was good; he needed the time to get his churning thoughts in order. From the second Anna had come running into his shop, babbling excitedly about the FBI and Dean's ex, he'd been tense as a bowstring: the only reason he hadn't walked straight past her and into Impala Records to demand an explanation was that she'd grabbed his arm and said, in conspiratorial tones, that she had a better idea. The whole thing had been so unexpected, Cas had forgotten she didn't know about the Fellowship or Dean's history or any of it, and so hadn't considered the implications of letting her eavesdrop, let alone the breach of trust involved in his doing it, too; he'd been caught off-balance, and between hurrying up one set of stairs and slinking down another, by the time they both heard Lassiter say, with casual venom,  _You'd be surprised how often my having fucked you has failed to constitute a career advantage,_ the die was already cast. 

That awful exchange between Dean and Lassiter was seared into his memory; Cas could work out some of what they were referring to from context, but the rest was a mystery, and one that hinted at something darker, something they'd both been skirting like a hole in the earth. Lassiter's disproportionate viciousness was proof enough of that, and Cas had felt utterly wretched, a coward in truth, for just having stood there, for not having come to Dean's defence. But he'd been frightened, trembling deep in his soul at the thought that this man, of all men, would be the one to question him: Special Agent Daniel Lassiter, whose casual, manipulative cruelty reminded him of no one so much as Brother Tiberius. It had taken all Cas's courage just to step out and draw his fire from Dean; and more, to do so calmly, without broadcasting his terror and thereby handing Lassiter an even greater advantage. Ignoring Dean's distress had felt like stabbing himself in the heart, and if Lassiter had then bundled him into some sleek, black government-issue car, anonymous and imposing, then Cas didn't think he could have held it together, no matter how long the journey.

But instead, Lassiter was driving a parrot fish; and more, was clearly resenting the hell out of it. He was a tall man, well over six foot, and the silly green car had obviously been designed to fit a much smaller occupant: he was hunched and scrunched behind the wheel, his hands rendered cartoonishly big as he tried to change gears, and all at once, Cas realised that a good part of the problem was Lassiter's own pigheadedness. He was clearly used to driving something bigger, heavier and more powerful, but rather than adjust either his expectations or his driving style, he was cursing and jerking the wheel and generally making the whole experience far more difficult than it had to be.

He thought of Dean driving the Impala, the casual control with which he steered, his elbow crooked on the window; how smoothly he changed gears, and how considerate he was of the car's limitations. He held the memory close, drawing strength from it, and when he next glanced across at Lassiter, who was swearing under his breath at a neighbouring minivan, he realised there was no comparison: whatever Lassiter said to him, whatever he tried to do, he wasn't half the man Dean Winchester was, and never would be.

And just like that, the fear was gone, replaced by an emotion so wholly unfamiliar, it wasn't until they pulled up outside the FBI field office that Cas could correctly identify it: fury. He was  _furious_ with Special Agent Lassiter – not just for what he'd said to Dean, which had so clearly been intended to wound, but for the high-handed, disrespectful way he'd treated Cas himself, collecting him without so much as a courtesy call or a polite word exchanged beforehand. As Lassiter lead him into the field office, Cas let the fury fill him, felt it transmute into an implacable, icy calm, as mirror-bright as armour. 

Lassiter was going to regret he'd ever come to Monument.

 

*

 

Anna locked Impala Records, all but dragging Dean upstairs to the safety of his flat. She'd dealt with enough crap in her life – and had been present for enough relationship drama – that this wasn't the first or even the most spectacular ex-inspired meltdown she'd ever witnessed, though it certainly came close; nor was it the first time she'd seen a grown man reduced to wrenching, public tears. But they were usually drunk when it happened, not stone-cold sober, and from her limited experience of dealing with former soldiers – which, now she came to think of it, wasn't really all that limited, not once you factored in her uncles and Michael James and Sam Dee and the others – either way, it seldom meant anything good.

So she got him into his armchair and told him to wait, which he did, while she put the kettle on for tea, only Dean didn't  _have_ any tea, just a fuckload of dry goods and warm beer and, at the very back of the cupboard, a bottle of Russian vodka, which probably tasted like kerosene, but any port in a storm was better than none. She snagged a pair of mismatched mugs, poured them both a stress-appropriate but not insane measure of clear spirits, and returned to the lounge room, shoving the cup into Dean's trembling hands. He'd stopped crying by then, but his eyes were red-rimmed, and he kept on swallowing like there was something stuck in his throat. 

'Drink that,' she ordered, expecting him to sip, but instead he necked the whole thing, coughing slightly at the burn, and it made her feel guilty enough that she swigged some of her own, too, and mother _fucker_ , was calling it kerosene an understatement. 

'Jesus!' she gasped. 'Oh my fucking god,  _ no _ .'

'You poured it,' Dean said, managing a watery smile.

'Yeah, but you bought it! God, I think my throat is committing seppuku.' She put down the mug and nudged it as far away from her as the table would allow, and for a moment, you could almost pretend there was nothing wrong, that Dean hadn't just gone off the deep end and chucked a cowbell into the Classic Albums section, pun probably not intended but most definitely applicable. Anna took a deep breath, and a moment along with it to decide if she really wanted to get involved, and then said, 'OK. Crowley was one thing, but this? This is something else. You wanna tell me what just happened?'

'It's kind of a long story.'

She snorted, but not unkindly. 'Everything is, with you. All right.' She crossed her arms, considering. 'So, let's skip the part where Cas is somehow involved in this whole Nevada Fellowship nightmare, because that's deeply none of my business –' though of course, it put yesterday's conversation in a whole new, terrible light, '– and fast forward to the point where you used to be a soldier, and you dated that Lassiter jackass, and whatever the fuck else happened there that makes you think it's OK for him to treat you like shit, because  _wow_ , was that the  _exact fucking opposite_ of OK.' 

Dean looked utterly miserable, like a wet dog on its way to the vet. 'I deserved it, Anna. Trust me.'

'Bullshit you did.' Her vehemence clearly surprised him; his head jerked up like a puppet's. 'Look, maybe you screwed the guy over, and maybe you didn't. Unless you tell me, I can't say. What I  _do_ know, though, is that you don't fucking fling a suicide attempt in someone's face like it was a shame they failed, and if Lassiter's gross enough to do that, then he's probably gross enough to have deserved whatever it is you did to him.'

Dean flinched, and Anna could've kicked herself, because she'd more or less done the exact same thing she was mad at Lassiter for doing, albeit with better intentions. 'Shit, Dean, I'm sorry, I'm such an idiot. Look, forget about that – that's, that's some heavy stuff, and you don't need to tell me about it, or justify it, or anything like that. I just want to  _help_ , is all.' 

'No, I get it.' He slowly lifted his gaze. 'Lassiter – Danny – OK.' He sighed. 'I knew him when we were kids. Not long, but long enough. I mean, my dad travelled around a lot, and for about six months when I was eleven, we lived in this little town in South Dakota, and Danny was at my school. And we were friends, and I had a crush on him – first time I ever crushed on a boy, and it spun me round a bit, 'cos of how my dad was about that stuff – but eventually I figured that maybe he had a crush on me, too. Only then my dad moved us off to Connecticut, and I never saw him again.

'Anyway. Fast forward a few years. I joined the army right out of school, and ended up on tour in Iraq, which is about as fucked up as you'd imagine, and I told myself I was coping, only I wasn't. And one day, three years in, this new guy transfers to our platoon – lots of fuss over it, too, 'cos the rumour was, he was being fast-tracked, had caught someone's eye or whatever – and I look up, and it's Danny. And right there, that was awkward, because I was pretty sure he knew I went for guys, and I was pretty sure I knew he did, too, and – well. Along of all its other problems, the thing about Don't Ask, Don't Tell was, it didn't work if you already  _knew_ . And right off, I could tell he was mad as hell at my being there and knowing what I did, because it's not like we were best friends or anything – I mean, he had no guarantee I wouldn't drop him in it, and of the two of us, he had more to lose.'

He fell silent, and Anna said, gently prompting. 'OK. So what happened next?'

'Lassiter tracked me down, bailed me up against a wall and threatened to kick my ass eight ways from Sunday if I opened my mouth.' Dean went pink. 'Problem was, I, uh, liked it, and it was pretty obvious he did, too. A lot.'

Anna opened her mouth. Closed it again. Blushed. Generally speaking, she wasn't in the habit of making assumptions about other people's sexual kinks, but Dean was undeniably hot, and before she'd realised he was with Cas, she'd treated herself to some idle speculation about what he might be like in bed. Of all the adjectives she'd thought to apply to him – and she wasn't proud of herself, but there'd been a few –  _submissive_ wasn't among them. 

'Right,' she said, pushing on doggedly. 'So. Sexual tension.'

Dean grinned at her embarrassment, and for a brief moment, he was his old self again. 'Sexual tension,' he agreed. But his face fell sharply after that, and this time, Anna waited the silence out. When he finally did speak again, it was quietly, with both eyes fixed on the floor.

'Back then, I was pretty messed up. I didn't exactly enlist for the right reasons – hell, I'm not even sure what the right reasons are, only that they weren't mine. I was lonely, and I'd lost people, and I'd done things that kept me up at night, and I wanted to feel something simple again, something I understood. Like sex, maybe.' He took a shuddering breath. 'Or punishment.'

Anna went very still. An ugly suspicion had fixed in her, and she wanted very, very badly to be wrong, but something told her she wasn't. Dean kept talking, but it was like he'd forgotten he had an audience; his voice was glassy and brittle and low, and his shoulders were hunched like wings.

'So there we were. And you gotta understand, it's not like we could sit down and talk about it, what we wanted or anything. Couldn't talk to anyone. And it was always... you had a moment, you know, you took it. Wherever you were. And I liked it, I did, I just wanted, sometimes, I wanted something else, and I couldn't – but he didn't know that, and anyway, it was everything else, you know? I just wanted out, but it's the fucking army, you don't just  _leave._ So I figured, OK – or maybe I didn't, maybe it was an accident, I don't know, but it was my idea to use the mess hall, only I forgot Kayburn was going to be there, and we got caught, and that was it. We got caught, and there was a tribunal, and we were both sent home, and afterwards Lassiter came up to me and said,  _you fucking knew Kayburn would find us_ , and I said yes, because I had, but I still don't – I was so messed up, Anna, I don't know if I did it on purpose, but I think I did, and that's why he hates me, that's why he's right to hate me.' 

Dean looked up at her, and she was horrified to realise he was crying again, but so silently she hadn't noticed. 'I outed him. He wasn't out to  _anyone_ , and I outed him, I got us caught because I was scared, because I wanted to go home. And you don't fucking  _do_ that to someone, you just  _don't_ , OK? So Lassiter can say whatever he likes. I deserve it.'

'No,' said Anna, reaching out to squeeze his hand. 'No, Dean, you don't. You  _really, really don't_ , and he doesn't get to talk to you like that. Even if it wasn't an accident; even if you did it on purpose –'  _and oh, godfuckingdammit, I am so not equipped to explain this if he hasn't already realised_ , '– I promise, I  _promise_ you didn't deserve it, now or then.' She faltered, completely out of her depth, and said, tentatively, 'Have you ever spoken to Cas about this? About what happened with Lassiter?'

Dean made a pained noise; he pulled away and buried his head in his hands. 'No. I didn't tell him. But I should have. He shouldn't have had to hear it that way, what I did – oh god, Anna, he just  _left_ .' 

Gently, Anna said, 'Yeah, he left the  _shop_ , but he hasn't left  _you_ .' 

Dean laughed, and the sound was horrible. 'You don't know that.'

'Maybe not empirically, but I'm a pretty good judge of people, and you know what?' She waited for eye contact, needing him to believe her. 'Cas is crazy about you, just like you're crazy about him. The way you two look at each other, it's like nobody else in the world exists – do you even know how rare that is?'

'No,' said Dean, in a very small voice, and suddenly Anna remembered how he'd frozen up when she'd said he was maybe in love with Cas, and she put that together with what he'd just said about Lassiter, and what Lassiter, the abusive fuck, had said about him, and how Dean feeling like he deserved to be punished was clearly no new thing in his life, and how he really didn't seem to understand what he and Cas looked like from the outside, and she said, as carefully, as she could, 'Dean, you don't have to answer this, but – have you ever been in love before? I mean, has anyone apart from your family ever said they love you?'

He mumbled something unintelligible.

'Sorry, I didn't catch that.'

He couldn't look at her. 'No one has.'

'What?' And then, when she realised what he meant, and saw how he'd curled in on himself, like daring to admit he was unloved was exactly the sort of thing that rendered him unlovable – and of  _course_ he wasn't that, but he so clearly thought he was that it might as well have been tattooed on his forehead – she slipped onto her knees and pulled him into a tight, fierce hug, so momentarily furious at the universe that she couldn't speak, and then said, 'People are fucking  _idiots_ sometimes.'

Dean hugged her tentatively, and said, 'Uh, Anna? You're not saying you – that you –'

'Oh, for the love of god.' She pulled back, looking him in the eyes, her lips quirked in a fond, frustrated smile. 'No, I'm not in love with you. And I'm not going to say I love you as a friend, either, because that would be lying – I mean, don't get me wrong, I like you plenty, and if we keep hanging out, then yeah, friend-love is definitely on the cards, but you are not unlovable, OK? You deserve to be loved, and you will be loved, and whatever the other tenses are.' She let him absorb that before adding, 'And you're capable of love, too. You're in love with Cas.'

He swayed a little, a pleading look on his face. 'It's ridiculous.'

'It's not.'

'It's been five days.'

'Yeah, but you've known him for three months.'

'So?'

' _So_ ?' she echoed, incredulous. 'So you just threatened an FBI agent with, quote,  _fire and fucking brimstone_ , end quote, if he so much as looked at Cas wrong, and I'm here to tell you, I've dated guys for twelve, eighteen months who wouldn't go to the mat for me like that, and especially not if it meant confronting some asshole who'd –' she barely checked herself in time; Dean was traumatised enough without forcing yet another revelation on him, especially one he seemed determined not to have, '– who I had a history with,' she said instead. 'Look, tell me I'm wrong: tell me you wouldn't take a bullet for the guy if you had to.' 

'Of course I would, but that doesn't –'

'Dean.' She gave his shoulders a little shake. 'Stop. Being. Dense. Look, we'll do it this way: if you're not in love with him, tell me that. Say,  _Anna, I'm not in love with Castiel Novak_ .' 

He opened his mouth, and he tried, he really tried – she could see the effort of the attempt – but he just couldn't do it. 'I love him,' Dean whispered. 'God help me, Anna, I love him, and I let him go with Lassiter.' And then he blanched, because he'd damn near cut himself open with that one, the unspoken fear too close to an acknowledgement of what he was trying desperately to avoid.

'Well, then,' she said, and smiled. 'I suggest you go get him back.'

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

The interview room was small and square, with three grey felt walls and one that was quite obviously made of one-way glass, twinned with an adjoining observation room; obviously, because even if Cas hadn't seen the setup a hundred times on TV, a handful of other agents had slipped into the next room over ahead of him and Lassiter, and if they weren't there to watch him spill his guts, he'd eat his shoes. There were two cameras mounted on the right-hand wall, each one taking in the scene from a slightly different angle, and now that they'd finished all the preliminary questions – Lassiter reading him his rights and explaining why he was there, Cas confirming his identity for the record – there was an almost palpable tension.

Just for a moment, Cas felt his strength waver. He didn't want to be here; he didn't want to confess his past to Special Agent Lassiter. But then he remembered Dean, the awful look on his face as they'd left, and that cold, calm fury came sweeping back.

'So, Mr Novak,' Lassiter said, smiling ever so slightly. 'Why don't you tell me, in your own words, about your relationship with Father Martin Bruckner, the man you know as Brother Tiberius.'

Cas knew a trap when he saw one. Keeping his face impassive, he said, 'We don't have a relationship. I haven't seen him for twelve years, since I left the Fellowship.'

'All right, then. I'll ask another way. When did you first come to live at the Fellowship compound?'

'Early in 1996. I was eleven. Brother Tiberius arrived and took over the following year.'

'And when did you leave?'

'I  _escaped_ ,' said Cas, 'in 2001.'

Lassiter leaned back in his chair. 'Tell me why you left,' he said, and if Cas had needed any more proof that this was going to be a hostile interview, his pointed refusal to accept the correction would have been more than sufficient.

Strangely, Cas realised he was glad they had an audience: he wanted Lassiter to be held accountable, and if it had just been the two of them, then angry or not, he wouldn't have had the courage to do what he did next.

'It's easier to show you,' said Cas, and though his voice was steady, his hands shook as he unbuttoned his shirt. Ignoring the surprise on Lassiter's face, he stood and turned and bared his back, giving everyone a good, long look at his scars. A week ago, he couldn't have done it, and even now, it took all his self control to calmly cover them up again, to button the shirt, to sit and look as though he wasn't sweaty and faint and suddenly near to screaming, because Brother Tiberius had repeatedly laid him open in a small, square room like this, and he had to breathe, just breathe, and imagine Dean was with him.

He made himself stare at Lassiter, who lacked the grace to look ashamed, but who was nonetheless visibly discomfited. You couldn't argue with scars, and that was the point: regardless of whether Lassiter was just a spiteful ass or if he genuinely thought the best way to get Cas to talk was to treat him like a potential suspect, there were limits to what you could openly gainsay without looking completely incompetent, and clear evidence of physical abuse didn't fall within them.

'Bruckner did that?'

'Yes.'

Almost idly, Lassiter asked, 'What with?'

Cas grit his teeth. 'His belt, mostly. Sometimes small knives. A few times with wire. Once with a chain.'

'Over how long a period?'

'Five years. It was punishment, for transgressing the Word of the Faithful.'

'Transgressing how?'

Cas smiled, bitter and bright as blood. 'I read books. I had a friend outside the community. I suggested it was wrong of him to hurt people.' He dug his nails into his palms, hard enough to bruise. 'I asked too many questions.'

'You were never taken to hospital?'

'No. One of the other brothers was an ex-army medic. He patched me up.'

'Did you know his name?'

'Not his real name, no. He called himself Brother Corinth. All the men who came in with Tiberius, or who came after him, were brother something. Aaron had always been Aaron.'

'This is Aaron Feltner, who originally started the cult?'

'Yes.'

'I see.' Lassiter paused, his fingers held in a pyramid, and if not for the way he suddenly frowned and half-shook his head, Cas would have thought he was being theatrical. But then he realised: Lassiter was wearing an earpiece. Someone in the other room was giving him instructions, and Lassiter didn't like them.

Cas saw his chance, and took it.

'Why did you harass my lover, Special Agent Lassiter?'

To his immense satisfaction, Lassiter flinched. 'I did no such thing, Mr Novak. I merely informed Mr Winchester that –'

'You told him,' Cas said, the cold rage burning his mouth, ' that he was pathetic. You said he was white trash, an alcoholic grunt with daddy issues who failed at everything he ever attempted, even suicide. You didn't know I was there, Agent, but I heard everything, and so did another witness. And you know what I think? I think,' he went on, ignoring the pinched, furious look on Lassiter's face, 'that you took this assignment for the express purpose of persecuting your ex-boyfriend. I think you don't give a shit what Martin Bruckner did to me, and I don't think you give a shit about helping my family, or anyone else still trapped in that fucking compound. I think you just wanted to make Dean feel worthless, and me feel afraid, so you could feel better about being such a  _fucking jackass_ .'

Lassiter shot to his feet, his mouth open, but before he could get any further, the door to the interview room swung open, revealing a well-dressed Asian woman somewhere in her late forties. She glanced at Cas, acknowledging him, and then said to Lassiter, outwardly calm, but with lightning in her eyes, 'Agent Lassiter, might I have a word with you, please?'

'Of course,' he said, brusquely, and shot a poisonous look at Cas before following her into the hall.

The door clicked shut, and Cas was left alone in sweet, victorious silence.

 

*

 

Dean cleaned up the mess he'd made while Anna rehung the cowbell. At some point, he'd have to sit down and work out which CDs he'd broken, and how many, but in the mean time, Impala Records was fit to open again – and that, too, was thanks to Anna. It occurred to him that he couldn't remember the last time someone he wasn't sleeping with, or who didn't want to sleep with him, had exhibited even half as much care for his wellbeing as she did, and before he quite knew what he was doing, he went over and hugged her again. She tensed up slightly, not expecting it, then squeezed him back with a strength that was all the more incongruous for having come from such a small frame.

'You're such a dork,' she said, pulling back. 'Adorkable, even.'

'I can live with that.'

'Good.' She swept the store with a critical eye, then nodded. 'All right. Now go get Cas.'

'You're sure?'

'Did I stutter?'

'No, but –'

'Dean.' She crossed her arms. ' _If_ he's mad at you, which I highly doubt, then it's as much my fault as anyone's for dragging him over to eavesdrop. So, yeah, I can mind the damn store for an afternoon.' She pointed at the door. 'Now go!'

'Yes, ma'am,' he said, and went.

Just the act of driving the Impala made him feel more in control of his life. Behind the wheel, Dean knew what he was doing: he might not always know where he was headed, but he sure as hell knew how to get there – or how to get somewhere, at any rate – and with the car purring under and around him like a metal safety blanket, it was easy to push Danny Lassiter out of mind; to pretend, in fact, that Sacramento had never happened at all.

He was three blocks away from the store when a siren whooped and something flashed in his side mirror. Startled, Dean realised he was being hailed by an unmarked police car with a blue light on the roof, and experienced a sudden surge of panic as to what the stop could be about. Had Lassiter somehow roped the local police into making sure he kept away from the FBI field office? Had Sergeant Harris found out something else about the Fellowship siege, or maybe the shitstain who'd mugged Cas? Or – and here his stomach clenched – perhaps it was about Crowley. That possibility brought him up cold, and as the car blinked its headlights, indicating he should pull over, Dean suddenly realised what a stupid situation he'd put himself in, dealing with the police and now the goddamn feds while a loan shark was pulling his strings. God, he had to play this just right, or he was sunk, and then Cas would left on his own, and  _that_ was insupportable. 

Up ahead was a vacant lot with an empty driveway; Dean pulled the Impala over, turned off the engine and braced himself, watching in his side mirror as the other car drew up behind him. Two men got out, and as they approached, one of them waved a hand to indicate that Dean should do likewise.

'Shit,' he muttered, unclipping his belt. Giving the dashboard a reassuring pat, he hesitated over grabbing his jacket – it was folded on the passenger seat – decided against it, and stepped out into the road to meet them, forcing himself to smile.

'Hey there, officers! What can I do you for?'

'You Dean Winchester?' said the man on his right. Dean turned to look at him, frowning.

'Yeah,' he said, uneasy now. 'That's me. Wh–?'

Something smashed into the side of his head. Dean dropped to the ground, and as he coughed and scrabbled in the dirt, he had just enough time to reflect on what an idiot he was before the second blow knocked him unconscious.

 

*

 

By Cas's reckoning, he'd been left alone for nearly twenty minutes, which was more than long enough for triumph and fury both to fade, replaced by sickening, nauseated doubt. What the hell was he doing, pissing off someone like Lassiter? He should've just answered the questions and kept his head down, even if it made him a coward. He tried to think what Dean would do, but instead, he kept mentally replaying the moment when he'd announced himself, and the terrible look on his lover's face as Cas had left the store, which only made him feel guiltier. He'd as good as abandoned Dean, and so it was only fitting that he be abandoned in turn, left to stew in this sad, anonymous room and think about his failings.

By the time the door opened again, he was a wreck. He jerked his head up, watching as the same woman who'd evicted Lassiter strolled in and sat down opposite. She offered him a small, polite smile, then folded her hands on the table.

'Mr Novak, my name is Special Agent Bao, and I'll be taking over the remainder of this interview. Do you have any questions before we begin?'

Cas stared at her, too shaken at first to speak. Then, unable to help himself, he blurted: 'What's going on?'

Bao sighed. She'd clearly anticipated the question, or some variation thereof. 'Mr Novak – or do you prefer Castiel?'

'Cas,' he managed. 'Cas is fine.'

'Cas, then. I'm going to be honest with you: what's happening in Nevada right now is not our finest hour. It is, in point of fact, a jurisdictional screw-up, and therefore a political nightmare. For reasons I'd rather not get into, our friends at the ATF decided to jump the gun with Bruckner, severely compromising the FBI's own investigation into the Fellowship, and now we've ended up with exactly the situation we were trying to avoid: a public standoff and a media circus.

'Prior to the ATF's involvement, the FBI had made contact with someone inside the compound; someone who was willing to get us the information on Bruckner we needed to see him locked up forever. This person, not unreasonably, demanded certain assurances from us before agreeing to cooperate: total amnesty for her and her family in relation to Bruckner's activities, a guarantee of protection in the event of a raid, and a similar guarantee that we would warn her before moving in on the compound. The agents at the ATF, however, –' and the more she said the name, the more her hatred of the organisation became apparent, '– were unaware of this deal. Not only wasn't our insider warned before the initial raid, but thanks to various interdepartmental pissing contents, once she finally got out, the first person to question her mistakenly decided that a hardline approach would yield the fastest results, thereby ensuring that the one person capable of giving us the information we need is now refusing to cooperate.'

It took Cas a moment to process the implications of what she was saying, and when he did, his heart near stopped in his chest. 'My mother,' he whispered. 'My mother was your informant.'

Bao's face was sharp with sympathy. 'Yes. Yes, she was. And just as Special Agent Lassiter has evidently succeeded in antagonising you and your lover –' and that's when he knew for certain Bao had been watching the interview first-hand, because she knew to use his word,  _lover_ , '– so too have the ATF antagonised the rest of your family. Thanks to the way your sisters were treated, not to mention the fact that she was shot trying to save herself and them, your mother is now refusing to cooperate, on the not unreasonable basis that, as the federal presence thus far has been demonstrably incompetent, any information she provides could easily lead to injury or death for other innocents in the compound. Which puts us in an increasingly difficult position.' She smiled grimly. 'The Bureau, you see, does not take kindly to being baulked. And even though the problem was caused by a slapdash, aggressive approach, that hasn't stopped certain... hotheads, shall we say, from thinking that a slightly modified slapdash, aggressive approach is somehow going to fix it.'

Cas felt a cold sweat settle over his body. 'And Special Agent Lassiter is a hothead.'

Bao nodded. 'More specifically, he's a hothead's hothead. Someone higher up the food chain decided to turn him loose down here in the hopes that either you'd incriminate yourself, or your lover would, and then they'd be able to use you as a bargaining chip against your mother: give us what we want, or your son will suffer. Fortunately, someone else with significantly more sense than god gave a grapefruit got wind of it and sent me down to clean up the inevitable mess. Which is what this is: a total fucking catastrophe. And here we sit.' She spread her hands.

He'd been nauseated before, but that was nothing compared to how he felt now. 'I think I'm going to be sick,' he said, and it was almost worth the surge of bile in his throat to see the genuine alarm on Bao's face. Happily for both of them, Cas managed to get control of his stomach, though it was a near thing, and when he spoke again, some of the fury was back, turning his words cold and hard.

'So, let me get this straight. Someone at the FBI gave Special Agent Lassiter free reign to come down here and verbally abuse his ex-boyfriend, my lover, in the hope that it would upset one or both of us enough that you could threaten me with a charge, and use  _that_ threat to force my mother's compliance with the same bunch of incompetents who let her get shot in the chest on live TV?'

Bao winced, as well she should. 'Yes,' she said. 'Mr Novak – Cas – believe me, I'm trying to fix this. I want to honour the promise the Bureau originally made to your mother. We're footing your family's medical bills, and as of half an hour ago, Special Agent Lassiter is officially banned from contacting either you or Mr Winchester for the duration of his stay in Monument. I have no desire to force your mother to do anything, but I do want her to cooperate, and given the choice between a carrot and a stick, I'm minded to choose the carrot. Which brings me here, to you.'

'What do you want?' Cas asked, warily.

'For starters, I'd like you to tell me whatever you can about the layout of the compound; anything at all. Any information about Bruckner, his contacts and their capabilities would be similarly welcome, along with details of any and all crimes they've committed to your knowledge. Such as, for instance, child abuse.' She folded her hands and took a breath. 'Additionally, I would also like you to speak to your mother on our behalf, or at the very least, to lend us your endorsement in dealing with her. It would, I believe, go a long way towards assuring her that the Bureau isn't completely unworthy.'

Even having expected the request, it still hit Cas like a suckerpunch, and for a moment, he so powerfully wanted Dean that he actually turned to him for support, momentarily forgetting that, of course, his lover wasn't there. His heart wrenched painfully at the dissonance, but Special Agent Bao, if she noticed his distress – and she surely must have done; it was, after all, what she was paid for – did nothing to try and mitigate it, perhaps because she knew her help was inadequate, but just as plausibly because she felt it served her advantage to keep him weak.

'Special Agent Bao,' said Cas, and some of that cold anger must still have been in his tone, because she sat up sharply, 'I haven't seen my mother since I was seventeen years old. The last time we spoke, she was washing the blood off my back and telling me I needed to trust more in Brother Tiberius and the Word of the Faithful, because otherwise, I wouldn't be with her in Heaven. I haven't seen my sisters since they were babies, and up until yesterday, I didn't even know I had a brother. I have spent the majority of my adult life in self-imposed exile from happiness because I left my family in the hands of a monster, and now you sit there and tell me that yes, my mother,  _my mother who bore his children_ , eventually  _did_ see Brother Tiberius for what he was. She risked everything for my siblings, but nothing for me, and maybe even saying that makes me a terrible person all over again, but the point, Agent, is that if you think for even one second I can just get on a plane to Nevada, walk into that hospital and tell her that she should trust you – and that after all this time, she's going to think I'm doing it from the goodness of my heart – then either you think we're both spectacularly stupid, or you really don't know anything about people.' 

He was gripping the table, and Bao just looked at him, and said, a little sadly, 'If I had another option, I'd take it. Believe me. I know how imperfect this is. But I don't have another choice.'

For several long seconds, Cas shut his eyes. He already knew what he had to do; he just wished like hell there was an alternative. But like Bao said, it was an imperfect situation. There were a limited number of outcomes from this point onwards, and whatever he did now, he couldn't escape the consequences. All he could do was try his best and hope it was enough.

'I won't go to see her,' he said. 'Not yet, anyway. Not like this. But everything else – I'll tell you what I know.

 

*

 

Dean came to with a headache like he'd been kicked by an iron elephant. He blinked, groaning at the stiffness of his muscles and the sour, metallic taste in his mouth, and made two unpleasant discoveries: firstly, that he was comprehensively tied to a chair, his legs to its legs and arms to its arms, and secondly, that there was a black bag over his head.  _Fuck_ , he thought, and then he remembered the car, the men, and would have laughed himself sick if not for the fact that vomiting was a very real and, under the circumstances, exceptionally repulsive possibility. Goddamit, he'd  _known_ that Crowley was watching him, but he'd been so caught up with his own petty bullshit, and with looking after Cas, that he'd left them both vulnerable, and now he was suffering the consequences of his own short-sightedness.

Something brushed against him, and a gravelly female voice said, 'He's awake, I think.'

'Good,' said a second woman. Her voice was lighter, as dryly sweet as cheap chardonnay and probably just as perilous. 'Let's have a look.'

The hood was tugged free. Dean squinted into the sudden brightness, feeling it like a knife in his head. Blinking away starbursts, he took in the scene, which wasn't exactly what you'd call encouraging. He was in a small, windowless room, and arrayed before him were three people he recognised, two he didn't, and none of them friendly. The single door was guarded by the two goons from the car, who flanked it like silent statues; Crowley stood off to the right, hands tucked in his pockets; and then there were the two strange women. One of them was on his left, the hood dangling from a finger, while the other reclined in a studded leather armchair and smiled.

'Ruby Blue,' said Dean, because she couldn't possibly have been anyone else. She was long-limbed and curvy, her black hair worn short and styled sideways to emphasise, rather than conceal, the stark, white scar bisecting the left side of her face, temple to jaw, cutting the eye so cleanly, it was impossible to think she'd kept the use of it – and of course, she hadn't. Where her right iris was a vivid, natural cobalt, the left was vermilion, painstakingly painted on what had to be a glass eye:  _Ruby Blue_ , both name and namesake. She wore a tailored pinstripe suit, a matching vest, a crisp white shirt, and heels that ought fairly to have been classified as offensive weapons, they were that sharp. Her lipstick was plum-dark, and she looked all over terrifying, like a cross between a silent movie mobster and the femme fatale he was hunting.

'Dean Winchester,' she said. 'It's nice to meet you in person. I only wish it were under more professional, less inauspicious circumstances.'

She didn't quite glance at Crowley, but then, she didn't need to; the loan shark looked like he'd been taxidermied by someone with a grudge, and whether he was angrier at Dean for being so careless or with Ruby for having found out first would probably hinge on a coin-flip.

'Yeah, right back atcha,' said Dean, scowling.

'He's cute!' said the woman with the hood, who was, in her own way, almost as terrifying as Ruby Blue. In her red-and-white polka-dot dress, she looked like a rockabilly model, all cream curves and glossy curls with a smile like garotting wire. Absently, she tossed the hood at Crowley, who was obliged to catch it, though his expression clearly said he'd rather have caught crabs. 'I'll try not to hurt his face. Much.'

Ruby  _tsk_ ed. 'You're so sentimental, Meg. It's not like anyone ever spared me.'

'I'm not going to spare him.' Smiling, Meg went to perch on the arm of Ruby's chair. 'Just, you know. Leave him something to work with.' She leaned in, kissing Ruby's cheek. 'It's not like he has your brains to compensate.'

'True,' said Ruby, and this time, she really did glare at Crowley, pinning him like an errant moth in a butterfly box. 'Because only a complete and utter  _moron_ would think they could sign on with me, then turn around and run straight to the cops – to the feds, even! – without my deigning to notice.' 

Crowley spread his hands. 'You get what you pay for, darling. You wanted dumb, I gave you dumb.'

'No, I wanted  _simple_ . There's a difference, Crowley.' 

'Not often, in my experience.'

' _Clearly_ ,' Meg said, scathing.

'Be that as it may,' said Ruby, turning that eerie, odd-eyed gaze on Dean, 'the fact remains, Mr Winchester, that you've chosen some very poor bedfellows these past few days, and I'm minded to find out why. So before I let Meg here have her fun, I thought I might ask you, woman to  _very_ stupid man – exactly what the fuck do you think you're doing?'

Oh, this was bad, and so deeply ironic that Dean almost laughed, which would have been a potentially fatal error. 'Lady, you've got it all wrong,' he said. 'I haven't said jack to the cops, or leastways, not about anything to do with you. It's utterly unrelated.' And then, when she raised an eyebrow, 'Look, I might not be the brightest kid in class, but I've done this before, and I know how to keep my mouth shut. You really think I wanted this?' He shrugged to indicate the room. 'Really? You think this is my idea of a good time?'

Pantherlike, Meg rose. 'I think you like it rough,' she purred, and it hit him harder than even she'd intended, because it was too close to something Lassiter had once said, and Lassiter was back again, and the look on her face as he flinched and paled was like he'd given her Christmas.

'You're not my type,' he managed, but it was too little, too late, and the whole room knew it.

'Oh, but I am, sweetheart.' She advanced on him, slowly pulling a cigarette and lighter from the cunning, voluminous pockets of her dress. She lit up, inhaling a lungful of smoke, and as she crouched between Dean's legs, her elbows resting on his thighs, she exhaled into his face. The smoke stung his eyes, though he didn't cough. Reflexively, he pulled against his bonds, testing the possibility of escape. If only he'd worn his jacket, they might have been stupid enough to let it stay on, and then he'd have had some wriggle-room; instead, his arms were bare all the way down, and tied at both wrist and elbow. Slow panic stirred in his belly. He'd been worked over before, but that didn't mean this wouldn't hurt, and worse still was the panoply of it, the way Crowley stood with a butler's impassivity while Ruby Blue presided like a queen at an execution.

Then Meg pressed the cigarette tip to his neck, and smiled as he yelled and squirmed.

'What did you tell the cops, Dean?'

' _Nothing_ ,' he gasped. 'Goddamit, listen to me, I – ahhh!'

She burned him again, her actions lazy and practised. 'I'm sorry. What was that?'

'It wasn't about this! Dean panted. 'Cas was mugged, OK? You can check! He was mugged in Southwall the other night, and we had to follow up o–  _ahh_ ! Son of a bitch!' She'd burned the hollow of his throat, and when she finally topped, the tender skin was raw and weeping. 

'We're not stupid, Dean. The feds don't show up for a mugging. What did you tell them? Where did they take your boy?'

'It's personal,' Dean said, and even though he'd braced for the pain, he couldn't keep from gasping as she burned below his jaw. 'I swear! The guy you saw, the fed, Lassiter, he's an ex of mine, OK? He's an ex, and he's pissed at me, so he picked up Cas – aaahhh!'

Another burn, harder this time. His eyes were tearing up, but he wouldn't cry in front of these fuckers, not on top of everything else.

'Your ex,' said Meg, flatly disbelieving. 'You really are stupid.'

'Crowley!' Dean yelled, and god, did he hate himself for the appeal, but he already knew Meg wouldn't stop at cigarette burns, and he needed to end this, fast. 'Crowley, tell them!'

All eyes swung the loan shark's way, and Crowley, always the consummate actor, made a show of looking baffled. 'Tell them what, darling?'

Dean made a twisted noise in his throat as Meg went over her handiwork, retouching every old burn with an attention to detail that was almost loving. When she stopped, he choked out, 'Tell them how I left the army. Lassiter's the guy got sent down with me, he was fucking me and we got caught –'  _oh god, I don't want to do this,_ '– and now he hates me, he took Cas in for questioning just to piss me off, I swear – aaah!' He clenched his teeth as Meg selected a new bit of skin, and shouted, 'Crowley, you bastard,  _tell them_ !' 

Meg rocked back on her heels, head cocked to listen behind her as she took a final drag of the cigarette. 'Well, Crowley?' she called not turning, still just grinning up at Dean like they were friends at a party. 'Any truth in it, you think?'

Crowley tapped his chin, and in that moment, Dean could gladly have killed him. 'Might be some,' he said, after a moment. 'I mean, he was sent down for doing the dirty on duty –' he leered, and Meg chuckled, '– and the other bloke was definitely called Lassiter. And it's not as if federal agents are above behaving like petty, entitled fuckmuppets. Quite the opposite, in fact. It's practically a job requirement.'

'Even so,' said Ruby Blue, 'what are the chances of it happening this week? I mislike coincidences, Crowley, and things are already complicated.'

'I take your point, love,' said Crowley, 'but pretty as he is, the lad's as dumb as a sack of hammers. Not exactly a mastermind.'

Ruby appeared to consider this, and for a brief moment, Dean thought it was over. Then she laughed, and favoured him with all the feral, unsympathetic boredom that cats reserve especially for injured prey, and said, 'I want to believe you, Dean. I truly do. But in our line of work, you're better safe than sorry.'

Grinning, Meg discarded the cigarette butt, and this time, when she reached into her pockets, she pulled out a flick-knife.

'You're going to scream for me,' she said.

Eventually, he did.

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: non-graphic mention of rape, attempted suicide.

Cas had reached his limits, and then gone beyond them. The interview had taken hours, and even though Bao had tried to go easy on him, insofar as the FBI ever went easy on anyone, there wasn't much she could do to blunt the horror of recollection. Cas had an eye for detail and a good memory: he'd seen the compound built from practically the ground up, and unlike his mother, he'd been bored and curious enough at the time to explore the works in full. He knew where the fence was grounded and how far down it went; remembered, too, how one of Brother Tiberius's first acts had been to requisition the cold cellar, moving everyone out of the rooms directly above it while he reinforced the walls. Bao's questioning was sharp enough to trigger a cascade of sense-memories, and suddenly, he was back in the desert, tasting leather and dust and blood and feeling the salt in his cuts. Bao eased off when he started crying, but they weren't done yet, not by a long shot, and by the time he'd told her what she wanted to know, he was left shaking and hollowed out, like a bone scraped clean of marrow.

Afterwards, she'd apologised for the ordeal and promised to be in touch about his family – had even offered to have him driven home, since Lassiter had effectively stranded him there. But the thought of being trapped in yet another small space with yet another agent was unbearable; he'd mumbled something about getting a cab, and Bao had nodded, and once he'd been signed out at the desk and had his phone returned to him, Cas fled as though the lobby were burning, out into the late afternoon and the unfamiliar bustle of Delacroix.

As agitated as he was, it would have been easy to keep going, just pick and direction and walk until he calmed down, but the lesson of Southwall was still fresh, and instead, he made himself stop, and breathe, and think. After a moment, he realised he was clutching his phone, and was about to do the sensible thing and call a taxi when he noticed he had several missed calls, all of them from an unfamiliar mobile number. That didn't bode well, but as drained as he was, he didn't think he could cope with letting the mystery go unsolved, either.

With trepidation, he called the number, relieved and worried in equal parts when a woman answered on the fourth ring.

'Cas? Are you OK?'

'Anna?' He blinked. 'How did you get my number?'

'I figured it would come in handy, so I copied it out of Dean's phone. And, hey, look!'

'Well, that's fair enough, but why are you calling? Is something wrong?'

'Not now that you've picked up – it's just, Dean wasn't answering his mobile, either, and since it's after five and you guys aren't back yet, I had to shut the store and head home, only I just wanted to make sure he found you all right –'

'Anna, Dean's not here. I haven't seen him since this morning.'

'He's not with you?'

'No.'

'He never called to say he was coming?'

'They kept my phone at the front desk. I just left a minute ago, and the only missed calls I have are from you.' He shut his eyes, trying very hard not to overreact. 'When did he leave the store?'

'Maybe an hour after you did, tops.' Anna sounded audibly nervous, which wasn't helping. 'He was pretty messed up.'

It was just as well there was a bench nearby; Cas sat down hard, and asked, 'Messed up how?'

'Crying. Freaked all to hell about Lassiter, about how you left with him. I mean, I calmed him down a bit, I wouldn't have let him go if he hadn't seemed OK, but he thought –' she gulped, '– I mean, he was worried you were mad at him because of what Lassiter said. Like, mad enough to dump him.'

The guilt was so hot in his throat, he could barely breathe. 'He was really that bad?'

She hesitated, and when she spoke again, there was something pained and scared in her voice. 'Cas, I asked him about Lassiter, and I don't – I mean, it was a confidence, and it's not like he even said it, exactly, but it was the way he  _wasn't_ saying it, if you know what I mean, and I don't want to go behind his back, but if you haven't seen him, and he's not picking up, then I think maybe I need to –'

' _Anna_ .' Cas was gripping the phone so tight, he was in danger of breaking it. 'Please, whatever it is, just tell me.'

'I think Lassiter might have...' She swallowed, a hitch in her voice. 'Cas, I think Lassiter might have raped him. Or abused him, or done something else awful like that – he said it was punishment, that he didn't always want it but that Lassiter didn't know, only the way he was talking, it was like he'd internalised it being his fault, like he didn't even realise how bad it sounded, but I swear, I  _swear_ to you I didn't say anything about it, I just told him he should talk to you, and I thought that's what he was doing, but if he's AWOL – if he never showed up –'

'Oh god. Oh god.' His vision swam; he could barely keep himself upright. 'Anna, I need you to look for him. I need him to be OK, I need –' he could feel the panic attack building, bit his cheek and somehow kept going, '– I need to find him, I have to make some calls, but please, I need you to look for his car, anywhere he might have gone – there's a bar in Southwall, the Hot Rock, check there first –'

'OK,' she said. 'Cas, it'll be OK, I'm sure he's fine, but I'll check the bar and text you, all right?'

'All right,' he said, but it was anything but, because Dean was missing and maybe he'd done something stupid and maybe he hadn't, but just the possibility of losing him like this – the idea that Lassiter had, had –

He hung up, and hugged his chest, and somehow got himself well enough under control that, when he pulled Bao's card out of his pocket – she'd pressed it on him at the front desk – he was able to dial her number on the second try.

'This is Bao,' she said, answering almost instantly, and Cas didn't even know what he said, except that it involved the words  _Dean, missing, Lassiter, abuse_ and _triggered,_ and ended with the phrase  _it's all your fucking fault_ . There was a long pause, and then Bao said, 'Mr Novak – Cas – I'll do everything in my power,' which offer potentially ran the gamut from sweet fuck all to a citywide manhunt, but which most likely meant she'd make a couple of calls and go home, and Cas was so upset, so angry, he couldn't even bring himself to say thank you. Instead, he called Sergeant Harris, who promised to keep an eye out, too, but whose apologetic tone made it clear he didn't think there was much else to be done at this point, and then it was over: Cas was alone in Delacroix with a mobile phone and his lover lost, and not the slightest clue about what to do next.

So he called Dean, which maybe he should have done first off, just to make sure Anna was right, and for one horrible, hopeful moment, he felt sure there'd been a misunderstanding: Dean would answer, Cas would laugh and sheepishly call off Harris and Bao, and then they'd go home and fuck each other senseless until everything else went away. But instead, each unanswered ring of Dean's phone produced a physical pain in Cas's chest like he was breathing powdered glass, or asbestos, or thorns, and when it finally went to voicemail, he was so near to screaming, it was a wonder he managed to leave a message at all.

And then, because there was nothing else to do, he called a cab, which eventually came, and the whole drive home was like a mundane and terrible nightmare, one of those dreams where you know you're meant to be doing something important, only you can't remember what, and instead, you're stuck in a pointless, frustrating loop, like trying to find the door or the bathroom or, in Cas's case, endlessly checking your phone for a call that never comes.

He didn't remember paying the driver, or how he got up to his apartment: only that he was suddenly there, and just as suddenly alone. The phone beeped in his hand: it was Anna, texting to say Dean wasn't at the Hot Rock, but that she was going to keep looking, and all at once, it was too much – Lassiter, the interview, everything – and worst of all, the terrible, gnawing guilt that this was all his fault; that if he'd just been braver, just told Lassiter to fuck off and stood up for Dean in the first place, this would never have happened.

_Pathetic, Cas,_ the blank voice sneered.  _You cowardly fuck, who wouldn't rather die than be with you? That's what you are: toxic and fatal._

Sobbing, Cas stumbled through to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the Diazepam, staring at the bottle through a haze of tears. His hands were shaking so badly, he was back in the kitchen before he could get the lid off, and once he did, the bourbon was right there on the counter where Dean had left it, the closest thing in reach as he shoved a handful of pills in his mouth and groped for something to help him swallow. The liquor burned his throat, and he kept on drinking, kept on putting pills in his mouth, knowing dimly that this was a bad idea, that he needed to stop, but not quite able to remember why, because the pills made him calm, only they weren't working fast enough, and that meant he needed more.

Shaking and suddenly dizzy, he slumped to the ground, a near empty bottle in each hand. And that would have been OK, except that his phone was still on the table, and he needed his phone in case Dean called. Panting, Cas tried to strand up again, but the world spun violently sideways; he went to catch himself on his hands, but his hands were full, and when he missed his grip, his head hit the floor with an echoing thud.

The last thing he saw was the bottle of bourbon, tipped side-on as its contents pooled on the wood.

 

*

 

'That's enough,' said Ruby Blue, suddenly. She sounded genuinely bored, and Dean hated her for it even more than he hated Meg, who had done this to him, or Crowley, who had let her, because it was all at her say-so, and she didn't fucking  _care_ . 'If he's lying, we'll find out soon enough, and if he's not, then there's not much more we can do to prove it.' She waved a disgusted hand. 'Take him back to his car. And Crowley? Next time you bring me hired muscle, please remember that  _simple_ is not a synonym for  _stupid_ .' 

'I'll keep that in mind,' he growled, and his anger might have meant something, except that he'd just stood there and watched while Meg tore literal strips off Dean for god only knew how long. He was burned and bruised and bleeding, and when Meg suddenly cut his bonds and hauled him upright, the only reason he didn't throttle her on the spot was that he fell straight back down again.

' _Goddamit_ ,' he said, and it came out barely a cough.

It was Crowley who helped him up again, putting an arm around Dean's ribs with a murmured, 'There now. You'll live.'

And then, of course, the bag went back over his head.

This time, they didn't need to knock him out: he was dazed with pain, only upright because Crowley kept him that way, his legs on fire as his circulation steadily returned to normal. The way out felt like a maze, and more than once, he was left to trip over stairs and doorways and obstacles, until he felt gravel under his feet, and heard a car door click open, and was half-pushed, half-lowered into the back seat. He lay down, too weary to even try and sit up, and as someone – he assumed it was Crowley, but couldn't be sure – began to drive, he slipped into unconsciousness.

And woke again, just as suddenly, when the hood was pulled from his head.

Crowley stared down at him, frowning by the roadside.

'You don't look too good, darling. I'd get yourself some medical treatment. Mind what you tell the nurses, though. That sort of thing tends to be conspicuous.'

Dean spat blood on his shoes. 'Fuck you, Crowley. I will fucking  _kill_ you for this.' 

'Yeah, well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.' Crowley squatted down, peering at him like a vulture, and sighed. 'Blood and roses, Dean, you really are dense, aren't you? Could've given me a heads up about your legal issues, but no: gotta be the strong man. Gotta play the  _lone damn wolf,_ and drop me in the shitter. I vouched for you, Winchester. I vouched for you, and you left me to twist in the wind. And yet, in my infinite mercy, I have delivered you safe from the jaws of viragos and unto your Impala, forever and ever, amen.'

'Safe?' Dean tried to laugh, but it just made everything hurt. 'You call this  _safe_ ?'

'I call this alive, duckie, which is more than you'd be right now if I hadn't backed your play. I could've disowned you in there, but I didn't. Let that sink in for a bit.'

He straightened and stepped back, and somehow Dean managed to crawl from the car and onto his feet. Almost, Crowley clapped him on the shoulder, but seemed to remember at the last second why that might be a bad idea, and pulled his hand away.

'Run along now, Dean,' he said. 'We'll talk soon.'

And then he waved and drove away, leaving Dean to stagger over to the Impala. By some small miracle, the car had neither been stripped nor stolen despite the fact that it was still unlocked, the keys in the ignition, and as he lowered himself into the driver's seat, he took care not to look at his reflection in the mirror. He didn't want to see, not yet; injuries always hurt more once you'd seen them, and he needed all his strength to get home.

First, though, he grabbed his jacket from the passenger seat and pulled out his phone. It was nearly 6pm, which meant he'd lost a good few hours to Ruby Blue, though he suspected he'd been unconscious for at least one of them, but more worrying than the time were the seven missed calls he had from Anna plus one from Cas, all of which had resulted in voicemails.

Hands bloody and shaking, Dean listened to them in order.

_Hi Dean, it's Anna. Just wanted to see how it's going with Cas. Call me back, OK?_

_Anna again. Stop being a loser and pick up the phone._

_So, best case scenario, you and Cas are having sex in a field somewhere and can't be bothered to answer your cells. Worst case scenario, you've been eaten by bears. Either way, it's nearly four thirty, and if you're not back by five, I'm just going to shut up the store and go, OK?_

_Goddamit, Dean, this isn't funny. Pick your phone and call me back._

_Dean, I know this is the sixth message I've left you and I swear I'm not being a stalker, but you were kind of fucked up earlier and now I can't get a hold of you or Cas, and maybe I'm just overreacting, but after what you said about Lassiter and what he did to you, I'd really like some confirmation that you're, you know, alive, or at least that you're not doing something insanely stupid, so stop pretending you're too cool for school and call me. Please?_

_So Cas just rang me back, and you never picked him up from the FBI, and I am officially freaking right the hell out. And I'm sorry, I know you said it in private, but I told Cas what you told me about Lassiter, because I was – I am – really, really scared for you right now, and I'll understand if you never want to speak to me again, so long as you just call me first, OK? Or better yet, call Cas, because he's even more freaked than I am, and we're both out looking for you, and I just, I really need you to not be dead in a ditch, OK, Dean? Please be safe. Please call me._

A stone fist closed around his heart. Anna sounded terrified, and that was bad enough, but he almost couldn't bring himself to listen to the one from Cas. 

Dean shut his eyes, and played it.

_Oh god Dean please be OK please forgive me I'm so sorry, I never should have gone with him, I was just so scared but I can't lose you like this, I know it's just that I'm so fucked up but I love you, I love you so much, and if Lassiter ever fucking comes near you again I'll set him on fire, I've called Bao and Harris and I don't know what else to do, I don't think I'm coping very well so I'm going home and I need you to be there, please, I'm so sorry, just please be OK, please don't leave me alone._

Dean was shaking, his heart a tangle of hope and fear and guilt, because Cas loved him, Cas actually  _loved_ him, but as for the rest – 

_I told Cas what you told me about Lassiter_

_I'll set him on fire_

_what he did to you_

_I think you like it rough_

_you love it when I'm rough_

_stop struggling_

_struggle more_

_you wanted it_

_you selfish fuck, you already ruined me once, you don't get to do it again, you're a liar, you're a fucking LIAR –_

'No,' Dean whispered, but there was no point, it was years ago and didn't, shouldn't matter any more, not when Cas was waiting for him, not after what Meg had done, but still he just sat there, panting and bleeding onto the leather and too damn frightened to do anything with the phone except stare at it, because how the fuck could anyone make a call like that? How did you ring someone up and say,  _yes, you were right, he hurt me and I didn't know what to call it so I blamed myself, but now I'm hurt in a whole new way for a whole new reason, and coincidentally I need medical help, but please don't freak out over the phone, because I can't handle it right now_ ? 

You couldn't – or Dean couldn't, anyway, which amounted to the same thing – so even though it was selfish as hell, he shoved the phone in his pocket, gasping as the burns on his knuckles snagged the denim, and drove the three blocks home like he was made of glass, or the car was, or both, and really he hadn't lost that much blood, but the pain was starting to make him see spots, and when he pulled up in front of the store, he rested his head on the wheel and cried, it was just that much of a miracle.

He went in through the store, because it was less effort than walking all the way around to the back, and crawled up his stairs on hands and knees, and would have just lain down at the top except for how much it hurt, and, more importantly, because Cas was waiting next door. So he got up, trailing blood on the wall, and went out his own front door and into Cas's flat.

'Cas?' he croaked, stumbling in. 'Cas, I need some hel–'

He stopped cold, unable to process what he was seeing, which was Cas lying sprawled facedown in the kitchen, surrounded by pills and spilt bourbon. Which was impossible, because Cas loved him, Cas was waiting for him, therefore Cas could not be lying there like he'd just attempted suicide ( _oh please god no, not this, anything but this_ ), because then Dean would start screaming and not stop until either the world broke or he did, and he couldn't – he couldn't – 

'Cas?'

He knelt down beside him. Put a shaking hand on his back. Found a pulse, but one so weak and thready as to barely count. Pulled the phone from his pocket. Called 911. Spoke to the dispatcher. Gave the address in a voice that was flat and calm only because he was still in shock, because he was still tied to a chair in Ruby Blue's basement and hallucinating and he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction, but  _yes, please hurry, please come quickly oh god I don't think he's breathing_ – 

'Cas, baby, please, you have to wake up now. Please. I need you. I love you. Please?'

Dean pulled his lover into his lap, and cradled him, and Cas didn't move, and that was when he started screaming, the sound so raw it was like gargling blood, and still was ten minutes later, when the paramedics arrived.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

Anna ran towards the bookshop, almost out of her mind with worry. Since that first call, Cas had neither texted back nor answered his phone, and she was kicking herself for having assumed he'd be OK. That's when she saw the ambulance pull away from the curb and go tearing past in the opposite direction, sirens on full blast. She stopped and stared, and in a moment of terrible, piercing certainty, she knew that either Cas or Dean was in it, because who the fuck else was it going to be, on this street, at this time of night, after the day they'd both had?

'Shit,' she said, and ran after it, thinking madly that if she'd ever studied law, the crippling debt might just have been worth the comedic potential inherent in becoming a literal ambulance-chaser. Not that it was exactly a cakewalk: other pedestrians stared at her, and even at top speed, she still lost it at the George Street intersection, but not before she saw it turn right, towards Abbeyside General. Clutching at a stitch in her ribs, Anna halted, remembered there were such things as cabs, especially on a Saturday night, and promptly flagged one down.

Directing the driver towards the hospital, she pulled out her phone and called Cas again. He didn't answer, and she was so far past expecting Dean to pick up that she almost didn't bother, except that, if Cas really was in trouble – and now she stopped to think about it, he'd sounded frayed even before she'd dumped the truth about Lassiter on him – she had to try and let Dean know, wherever he was. Still, she hesitated, as much to try and calm herself as for any other reason. After all, she had no real proof that Cas was in the ambulance; just a bad feeling based on the fact that it had been parked in front of Impala Records, in a street where, to the best of her knowledge, Cas and Dean were the only residential tenants, after business hours.

Actually, when she put it like that...

_Don't freak out_ , she told herself, and dialled Dean's number. 

And almost yelped with shock when he actually answered.

'Anna?'

She opened her mouth to shout at him, to let him know exactly how scared she'd been, but the clear background sound of the ambulance siren stopped her cold: it was constant, not just a passing Doppler effect, and  _that_ meant there was only one place he could reasonably be.

'You're with him, aren't you.'

'Yes.' He was so hoarse, she could barely hear him. 'I came home and I... found him.'

Oh, that didn't sound good, and nor was the fact that he didn't even question how she'd known to ask.

'How bad is it?'

'I don't know. Bad. Maybe. Oh, god.' He went silent, and she could hear the paramedics murmuring to each other.

'Dean?' she prompted. 'What's happening? What's wrong with Cas?'

'Overdose. I think accidental. I hope. I need him, Anna, I need –' he broke off again. 'Find us at the hospital. I have to go, they want to look at me.'

'At  _you_ ?' 

He made a slurring sound, and after several seconds, she identified it as laughter. 'I'm a bit fucked up,' he said, and only then did she realise how groggy and slow he sounded, like he'd been given sedatives. Which made perfect sense – he hadn't exactly been in his right state of mind to begin with, and coming home to find Cas like that must have pushed him right over the edge.

'I'll come,' Anna said. 'I'm already on my way. Just keep it together, Dean. You've got to keep it together.'

'Trying,' Dean said.

He hung up then, and Anna, who didn't pray, crossed her fingers. She'd decided long ago that luck was a better ally than god; it might be fickle as hell, but at least it still showed up sometimes.

'How much further?' she asked the driver, knowing exactly how far it was, and not caring.

The driver smiled at her in the mirror. 'Not long,' she said, and if there was sympathy in her voice, well, she'd heard the phone call, or half of it, anyway, and she knew where Anna was going.

'Thanks,' said Anna, fidgeting with her phone. She half wanted to call Gabe, but even if he answered, it was a bad idea for about a dozen reasons, and really she just needed something to occupy her. And then, because if Dean was even half as messed up as he sounded, she was going to need to be the sensible one again, and she couldn't do that if she was all jittery, she said, 'Can I ask you a question, ah –' she looked around for the driver's ID, '– Marie, is it?'

'Sure,' said Marie, as they turned the corner.

'OK. So if someone's upset, and you know they're not exactly, you know, coping, but then you tell them something bad because they really need to hear it – well, not need to  _hear_ it, exactly, they just need to  _know_ – and then they get even more upset and do something stupid, is that your fault? Should you just have kept quiet?'

'Honey,' said Marie, 'if someone's in hospital, then unless you actually beat 'em up, or shot 'em, or gave 'em a blanket infected with smallpox or somethin', trust me: you didn't put 'em there.'

'But what if –'

'Did you want 'em hurt?' Marie interrupted.

'No, but –'

'Did you try and help 'em?'

'Yeah. I mean, I've been out looking, I've been calling, I was heading to his place –'

'Then quit blamin' yourself. Trust me. It won't help 'em, and it won't help you, neither.'

Anna took a deep breath and nodded, the knot in her stomach easing. 'Thanks,' she said. 'I needed that.'

'Hey, I'm a cabbie. Dispensin' advice is part of the job description.'

As they pulled into the hospital car park, Marie turned in her seat, and for the first time, Anna got a good look at her. She was younger than she'd assumed, only in her late twenties, with gorgeous dark skin and a full, smiling face.

'Here,' said Marie, and handed over a business card. 'That's my cab number. You need a lift home latter, gimme a call. I'm out all night, and doctors always take forever.'

'Thanks,' said Anna, touched. 'I'll do that.'

She paid Marie, said goodbye, and headed into Abbeyside General.

 

*

 

The sedative had helped Dean stay calm in the ambulance, but once they arrived at the hospital, and the doctors tried to take Cas one way and him another, it suddenly ceased to work. Pulling away from his intended escort, he started following Cas.

'Sir, your friend is going to be fine, there's nothing you can do right now and you're clearly hurt, so just come this way –'

'The hell I will,' Dean growled, and kept on going, struggling to keep up with Cas. He picked up the pace, ignoring the increasingly urgent voices urging him to stay put, and when someone grabbed his arm and physically tried to steer him around, he didn't even think, just shoved them away and kept on walking.

'Sir? Sir! Can someone please stop him? Doctor!'

A broad-shouldered man in scrubs loomed large in Dean's path. He grit his teeth: Cas's guernsey was headed for a T-junction, and he didn't have  _time_ for this – he had to stay with him, had to make sure he was OK.

'Step aside, man. I gotta go with him.'

'Sir, he's in good hands, I promise. We're taking care of him, and now we need to take care of you, too.'

Dean didn't know which was worse: how calm the guy was, or the fact that he still wasn't moving.

' _Please_ ,' he begged, frantic as Cas disappeared from sight, 'you don't understand, I left him alone, I just left him alone and it's all my fault –'

'Sir,' said the doctor, gently, 'to look at you right now, I don't think you 'just left' anyone.'

That brought him up cold. The doctor raised an eyebrow, daring Dean to contradict him, only he couldn't, because that would mean explaining about Lassiter and Ruby Blue and Meg –

Abruptly, he could feel every burn, every cut, every missing strip of skin, and this time, when the doctor nodded him back towards casualty, he went, letting himself be herded like a lost dog, that calm, soothing voice washing over him in waves.

'I promise we'll keep you updated on – what's his name?'

'Cas. Castiel Novak.'

'– on how Cas is doing. And who are you?'

'Dean Winchester. I'm his partner.'

'Well, Mr Winchester, I'm Dr Singh, and I'm going to leave you in very capable hands.'

They were back in the casualty ward, with all its bustle and open beds, and without quite knowing how it had happened, Dean found himself perched on the edge of a mattress, watching mutely as Dr Singh gestured reassuringly to a cross-looking intern, who was, to judge from the fresh bruise spreading across his cheek, the same man Dean had just shoved into a wall.

'Stay here, please,' said Dr Singh. 'Is anyone on their way for you? A family member, someone like that?'

Reflexively, Dean almost said no, then realised it wasn't true.

'Yes, actually. My friend, Anna. Anna Milton. She's coming.'

'That's good to hear.' The bruised intern was skulking; Dr Singh beckoned him closer, then said, 'Thomas, you can deal with the admission forms for Mr Winchester and Mr Novak, but first, stop by the nurse's station and make sure someone knows to send Ms Milton here, all right?'

Thomas looked like he wanted to mutiny, but instead mumbled, 'Yes, doctor,' and hurried away, clearly just glad to be out of Dean's range.

As he departed, another doctor arrived, which served as Dr Singh's cue to exit. He gave Dean an encouraging nod, which Dean returned, and then strode off, presumably to go and be calm at someone else who needed it.

'Mr Winchester, is it?' said the new doctor, looking him up and down. She was youngish, pale and light brunette, with a spray of freckles across her nose and the skinny, hard-knotted musculature of a rock climber. 'I'm Dr Evans. Now, can you tell me what happened?'

_Sure,_ though Dean.  _No problem. I was knocked unconscious by criminals, kidnapped, tied up, burned and cut on for a few hours, and then I drove home to find my lover half dead on the floor. How's your day going?_

'I tripped and fell down the stairs,' he said. 

It was such a baldfaced lie, she actually looked a little impressed. Mostly, though, she looked like she wanted to slap him.

'You fell.'

'Yes.'

'Down the stairs.'

'Yes.'

'And did  _this_ .' 

'Yes.'

'Uh  _huh_ . Right.' She seemed to weigh the costs and benefits of arguing, then decided the former outweighed the latter. She gave a long-suffering sigh. 'Take off your shirt, please.'

Dean complied, wincing with the effort. Now he thought about it, he was actually surprised Meg had bothered to leave it in tact, given what she'd done to the rest of him; but then, she was hardly a rational thinker.  _I'll kill her,_ he thought viciously.  _I'll cut her throat with her own damn knife._

Dr Evans was clearly made of stern stuff, but when Dean laid his shirt aside, her face betrayed a mixture of shock and sympathy. Pressing her lips together, she looked him in the eye and said, 'That must have been one hell of a staircase.'

'Yeah,' said Dean, weakly. 'A real killer.'

 

*

 

Anna's general experience with hospitals was one of bustle, disorientation and criminally bad sandwiches, and for the most part, Abbeyside General didn't disappoint. Once she finally found her way to reception – Marie had dropped her off at a different door to the one she remembered from other visits, and she'd floundered a bit – she expected to be told to wait, especially as it was Saturday night and she wasn't family. But just as she was asking for directions, a harassed-looking intern with a bruised cheek intervened and lead her straight through to casualty, all the while muttering under his breath about crazy masochists.

Then Anna caught sight of Dean, and stopped. She'd had time to adjust to the idea of Cas in bed with tubes in his nose, but even though Dean had said he was fucked up, she'd just assumed he meant emotionally, mentally, not that someone had come at him with a straight razor.

He was shirtless, legs dangling off the side of a raised bed like he was six years old, and visibly wincing as a white lady doctor swabbed a series of nasty cuts on his abdomen. No, not cuts, Anna realised; it was worse than that. He was missing actual strips of skin, like he'd been selectively peeled, leaving behind a series of livid, horizontal streaks still weeping blood and ichor. Sickeningly, she counted six separate wounds, each one about the length and width of her little finger: two parallel lines on each side of his navel, one above it, and one below. But as terrible as the raw flesh was, it was the symmetry that truly appalled her: it had been done slowly, care taken to keep the lines equal.

His arms weren't much better, patterned with shallow cuts from wrist to shoulder. These, too, were symmetrical: all straight lines, an equal number on each side and disturbingly parallel, like someone had wanted to give him stripes, and it finally hit her that Dean, in direct contradiction to her earlier fears, hadn't done this to himself. Someone had gone out of their way to hurt him, and if it hadn't been Lassiter – and as much as she loathed him, the timing didn't fit; he'd still been with Cas when Dean had vanished – then that left only one person she knew of: Crowley.

At which point, Dean glanced up, and finally noticed her noticing him, the look on his face a heartbreaking mix of shock, relief and gratitude, as though he really hadn't thought she'd come. If Gabe had looked at her like that, she'd have been insulted, as though he were passing negative judgement on her loyalty, but coming from Dean, it was just another manifestation of how unworthy he found himself.

'Anna,' he croaked, and god, he sounded terrible; she had an awful intuition that he'd screamed himself hoarse. 'Hi.'

'Hi yourself,' she said, and as the doctor stepped aside, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. 'You  _idiot_ ! I can't let you go anywhere, can I?'

Dean winced. 'Evidently not. Uh, Anna? You're kind of, um hurting –'

'Oh, shit! Sorry!' She leapt back, biting her lip with embarrassment, and that was when she noticed the cigarette burns, of which there were easily more than a dozen. She stared at them, wondering how she hadn't noticed sooner, and was horrified all over again when she realised the answer. Apart from his knuckles, he'd been burned in a pattern so vilely specific, she wanted to shoot whoever had done it: each burn – or each cluster of burns, rather, as most were grouped in twos and threes – corresponded to one of his lovebites. Every place Cas had marked him in pleasure, someone else had marked him in pain, and the naked, careful cruelty of it was almost more than she could bear.

'Anna?' Dean asked. 'What is it?'

She blinked at him. 'Oh, god. You haven't seen it, have you?'

'Seen what?'

Wordlessly, she looked at the doctor – Dr Carol Evans, according to her ID – who seemed to know instantly what she wanted.

'Hang on a tic,' said Dr Evans, ducking around a corner, and when she returned a handful of seconds later, she handed over a small, compact mirror. Puzzled, Dean flipped it open, looking at himself – and then his breath caught, the blood draining from his face.

'Oh,' he said, softly. 'Son of a  _bitch_ .' 

He almost flung the mirror away, but stopped himself at the last second, shoving back at Dr Evans instead. She pocketed it with a flash of silent sympathy, then said to Anna, casually wry, 'Apparently, he fell down the stairs.'

Anna glared at Dean, who had the good grace to look slightly ashamed of himself. 'That's because he's an idiot.'

'Hey!' said Dean, and 'Ow!' as Dr Evans started sticking gauze strips to his stomach cuts. 'Go easy, will you?'

'Sorry,' she said, only marginally contrite. 'Nearly done.'

Which was a lie, of course: she still had to disinfect and bandage his other cuts and burns, too. Dean grit his teeth, hissing as Dr Evans swabbed and covered each injury; Anna tried to distract him, telling him about how the store had fared in his absence, but though he prompted her when she faltered, it was clear he was only hearing about one word in three, his head tipped back in pain.

By the time Dr Evans was finished, he looked like – well. Anna had to be honest: between the gauze, the tape and the symmetry of his injuries, he looked like some small child's idea of a teddy-bear hospital patient, and when he asked, that's exactly what she told him. He looked briefly affronted, then burst out laughing, which under current circumstances meant he wheezed like a deflating balloon and almost smiled.

'Just about done,' said Dr Evans, lips twitching, and gave him a shot of something before either of them had even noticed the needle.

'Hey!' said Dean. 'What was that for, anyway?'

'Antibiotics. We don't want any open cuts getting infected; I'll write you a script for a follow-up course when you're discharged.'

'Great.'

All at once, Anna blurted, 'And what about Cas? Is he OK?'

Dean paled again, looking desperately at Dr Evans, and Anna could have kicked herself for being so tactless. Just the fact that Dean was sitting here, letting himself be looked after, meant that Cas was still alive; if he'd been in any serious, immediate danger, then even if Dean had been missing a leg, she couldn't imagine him consenting to be anywhere other than by Cas's side. But she'd been so startled by Dean's injuries, she'd momentarily let herself forget about Cas, and now that she'd remembered, she had to know.

And so, clearly, did Dean, who had an expression on his face like getting himself patched up after a torture session was an unpardonable luxury he should never have indulged in. Dr Evans seemed to notice it, too, because she said, quickly, 'I'll go get an update. Just wait here.'

She hurried off, and into the silence she left behind, Dean said, 'If he dies, it's on me.'

Anna looked at him, her pity mingled with frustration that he was being so dense, that he couldn't step outside himself for two consecutive seconds and realise how nuts this was. 'How do you figure that?' she asked.

Dean's eyes were far away. 'Because I let him go with Lassiter. I knew what kind of man he was, and I just let Cas walk right out the door without even trying to stop it.' He turned to her, pleading. 'Anna, I  _knew_ .'

'No,' she said, gently. 'I don't think you did. Not in a way you could talk about, or think about, even. This isn't your fault.'

'But if I'd just thought it through – I should've known Crowley was still watching the house, should've known there'd be trouble – if I hadn't been taken, if I'd just been there for him –'

'Stop it. Stop blaming yourself.'

'But I –'

' _No_ .' Her vehemence took both of them aback, but she still pressed on, because there was only so much self-pity she could take, and he needed to get past it before it killed him. 'Lassiter wasn't your fault, getting kidnapped wasn't your fault, and Cas overdosing wasn't your fault, because you, Dean Winchester, are not personally responsible for every bad thing that happens in your vicinity. It's correlation, not causation, OK?'

'Meaning?'

' _Meaning_ ,' she said, exasperated, 'that as far as I can tell, that you've spent your whole life getting the shit kicked out of you, and instead of thinking,  _Hey! Maybe the people kicking me are a bunch of bastards,_ you've started acting like you deserve it, only you  _don't_ , Dean, OK? No one does. I mean, it's bad enough you thinking that people like Crowley and Lassiter are right to hurt you, but now you're acting like  _being_ hurt is failing Cas, and punishing yourself all over again, and can you even understand how wrong that is? It's like – it's like –' she was struggling for words, knowing she had to find the right ones, and suddenly she had them, and it all came out in an angry rush, '– it's like you're stuck in this utterly toxic emotional loop, where if you get hurt, you don't even think about self-care – you just assume your pain is somehow hurting other people, which makes you a bad person, which means you deserve to be hurt all over again, which hurts other people, which makes you a bad person, and it just goes on and on and on, and as of this second, you need to cut it right the fuck out, OK? You're allowed to feel hurt, to  _be_ hurt, for as long as it takes you to get better, but that doesn't mean that people are right to hurt you in the first place.' 

She exhaled sharply for emphasis, and Dean said, ' _Oh_ ' in such a small voice that she knew what he was about to say, and so she got in first and said, with every drop of friendly menace in her blood, 'If you apologise, Dean Winchester, then so help me, I will smack you upside the head.' 

He opened his mouth, and went red enough that she knew he'd been on the brink of doing exactly that, and she would have laughed out loud, except that Dr Evans suddenly reappeared, and they both shut up to look at her.

'He's stable,' Dr Evans said. 'Unconscious, but stable. We've given him charcoal to help absorb what's left in his system, put him on IV fluids, and really, until he wakes up, that's all we can do.'

Dean gulped. 'But he's not – I mean, he hasn't – he  _is_ going to wake up, isn't he?'

Dr Evans smiled. 'I should think so, yes. It's pretty difficult to overdose on just Diazepam; the lethal dose for an adult is so high, you'd practically have to swallow a pharmacy to reach it. I've seen patients come in who took twice, three times what your partner did, and they all walked out again within a few days. No. Inasmuch as there's still a risk factor, it's not the pills – it's that he took them with alcohol, and that can make things tricky. But based on how he is now, I wouldn't be too worried. You got to him in time –' and Anna could have kissed her for that, Dean's trembling relief was so profound, '– and he's otherwise pretty healthy. He should wake up within the next 48 hours; probably sooner.' She hesitated. 'From what you told the paramedics about his state of mind, it seems like it was an accidental overdose, but we'll probably want to do a psych evaluation, just in case.'

'Sure,' said Dean. He seemed at a loss for words, and after a moment, Anna said, 'Can we go and see him?'

'You most certainly can. He's in K Ward, Room 43. Oh, and Mr Winchester?'

'Yeah?' he said, easing himself up off the bed.

Her mouth twitched. 'For the love of god, if you're going to insist on lying, find a story that's even remotely plausible, will you?'

The look on his face was priceless. 'He will,' said Anna, trying not to laugh.

'See that he does,' said Dr Evans.

'I like her,' said Anna, watching her go. 'Now, come on, bandage boy. Let's find Cas.'

'Uh, Anna?' said Dean, as she started walking. 'Little help?'

'Oh! Oh, sorry. Sure.' She put an arm around him, supporting as much of his weight as she could, and together they headed off in what Anna fervently hoped was the direction of K Ward.

'Thanks,' said Dean, after a moment. 'For, you know. For what you said before. And for being here. And... and for this morning, too.'

'Don't mention it.'

He fell silent, grunting slightly as Anna steered them out of casualty and down one of the less populated hallways. They passed a complicated sign which seemed to suggest they were going the right way, which was encouraging, but hospitals were tricksy places, and Anna knew better than to assume it would be that easy. Sure enough, they got turned around and had to backtrack, and it was another five minutes before they finally found themselves in K Ward, counting down the room numbers until they hit 43.

It was a private room, which surprised her; she hadn't figured that running a second-hand bookshop entailed much in the way of sold medical insurance. She would have asked Dean, but just at that moment, he was busy hovering his hand over the door like he was suddenly afraid to go in, so she rolled her eyes and said, 'It's not going to bite,' and turned the handle for him.

Cas lay on his back in bed, a drip in the crook of his elbow and a heart monitor clipped to his finger. He looked like a genderflipped Snow White, a sleeping prince under a witch's curse, and as Anna shut the door, Dean made a noise that was somewhere between a sob and a whimper. Limping over to the bed, he gently smoothed Cas's hair back behind his ears, then bent down and kissed him, once on the forehead, once on each eyelid, and once on his lips, and if fairytale justice had had any traction in the real world, then that's when he would have woken up. But he didn't, not yet: he just lay there, breathing softly, as Dean whispered, 'Hey, baby,' and slowly sank into the chair beside him.

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

 Dean had lost all track of time. It might have been an hour since Anna had lead him to Cas's room, and it might have been six; all he knew was that suddenly, she rose from the neighbouring chair, yawned and said, 'I'm going to go find the cafeteria. Want anything?'

'Caffeine,' he said. He was so tired, but he couldn't let himself sleep, not until he was sure that Cas would wake up, that he was safe.

'I'll see what I can do,' she said, and quietly slipped away.

Dean turned back to Cas, stroking the back of his hand, and heard again that panicked voice on his phone, the way he'd said _I know it's just that I'm so fucked up but I love you, I love you so much._ He couldn't bear to think of that as the last thing Cas ever said to him, that he might never know Dean felt the same way, and without even meaning to, he started talking.

'Cas, I'm so sorry. Anna said I should stop apologising, that I haven't done anything wrong, but right now, it doesn't feel like it. I should have been there for you, and I wasn't, and even if this isn't my fault, I'm sorry. I got your message, though. And I need you to know, I love you, too. I love you, Castiel. And I don't think you're fucked up. Or maybe you are, I don't know, but I'm not exactly well-adjusted and normal either, so I guess it all works out. I mean, this week alone, we've been to the hospital and the police station, and I got pretty beat up today, and you got mugged, and what the hell kind of world is this, anyway?

'It's a crapsack, that's what. Or I thought it was. But of all the stores I could have bought, I ended up with the one next to you, and right from the very first day, I was driving us both crazy trying to act like I didn't want you, when I did, I did. And maybe... maybe that's the balance, if there is one. Maybe upstairs, when god or whoever was handing out the good luck, all of mine just got lumped together, and this is it, right now, this week with you, because on one level, I know it's been shitty, I know it's just been terrible thing after terrible thing, but then you look at me, and I just... it just feels so _right_ , you know? And maybe we're both just crazy and broken and too dumb to know how this is all meant to work, but I don't care, Cas. So long as it means you're OK, and we can figure it out together, I don't care. I wake up next to you, and I feel like I'm safe, like I'm a person again. Like I belong.

'My whole life, I don't think I've ever belonged anywhere. After my mother died, my dad just... imploded, I guess. He was so mad at everything, he couldn't hold down a job, couldn't lay off drinking. He told us we had to move for his work, but he had skills, we could've settled anywhere if he'd wanted to, and at least to begin with, I think that's what he told himself we were doing, that this time it would be different, this time we'd make a home somewhere, but we never did, and eventually he stopped trying, because no matter where we went, she was still dead, and he had to do it without her.

'And what made it worse was, it was all just down to a stupid accident, a stupid fire that never should've started, and he needed to blame something for it, something solid, you know? If there'd just been something real to blame, then maybe he could've put all the grief and rage into just that thing, but instead, there was only me, because I broke the smoke alarm, and I know he didn't love me after that, but I don't think he could hate me like he needed to, either. So he was just stuck in the middle, and all that left over anger, it just spilled out into everything, tainted everything – his boss was always an asshole, the town was always wrong, the government was always stupid, I was never good enough, and all he could love was Sam, because Sam was the only good thing left.

'And we were so different anyway, it wound up feeling like we had different childhoods too, you know? I mean, his still wasn't perfect, but I don't think dad ever hit him, and I don't think he ever knew dad hit me, and by the time he was old enough that I could've said something, I didn't know how, and ever since then I've just been... oh, god. I've just been doing what dad did, haven't I? Going because it's easier than staying. You drive, and the world makes sense, and the car moves, and there's a purpose to it, a map and signs, and a plan for when you get there, but once you stop – really stop, I mean, not just pull in and visit – it all gets hard, and he never taught us how to do that part, and so I never learned.

'But I made you soup. I've never cooked for anyone else before, not really, and somehow you made me good at it. How do you do that, Cas? You don't try and change me, but I'm still better because of you, and maybe that's what love is, being better just because someone makes you think you can be. I don't know. I don't know because I never looked, I didn't think I could have it. We moved around so much, there was never time to figure it out, except that I knew I liked men as well as and women, and I thought... I think on some level, I thought it was because I was desperate, like if I could just be attracted to enough people, then maybe one of them would want me back. And I know now that's not true, but it took me a while, and before I did... before then, there was Lassiter.

'I think I can say it, now. What he did to me. I need to talk about it, Cas, but not like this, not when I don't even know if you can hear me, because it's going to hurt, it all hurts and I need you, baby, I need you to wake up. I need you to wake up so we can throw out your couch and buy one that's actually comfortable, so we can curl up on it and watch bad movies, I need you to wake up so we can figure out what to do next, I need you wake up because I love you, and because if you don't, I think I'll just start driving again, only it'll be too fast and on purpose and into an ocean, and I know this isn't my fault, but I don't know how I'll keep living if part of me still feels like I killed you, and I want to live, because this can't be all the good there is, it just can't. So please, Cas. I need you to wake up. Please, baby. Please.' He rested his head on the blankets, tears running down his cheeks. 'I love you so much.'

And Castiel stirred, his fingers tangling in Dean's hair, and croaked, 'I love you, too.'

 

*

 

At first, Cas thought it was part of the dream. He kept on seeing Dean, sometimes in the bookshop, or his bed, or the kitchen, but also in the compound and the old house in California, too, and a dozen other places he had no business being, except that it was Cas's dream, and he wanted him there. And it wasn't quite a nightmare, even though he had this urgent, nagging feeling like he'd forgotten something important, but it wasn't quite a fantasy, either, because every so often, there'd be flashes of somewhere else, of faces and places that made no sense, and people looking down at him, and then he'd slip back under again, and the dream-logic would take over.

But then he heard Dean's voice, and something inside him sat up and listened, and the words became a rope, and the rope became a path, and he walked the voice back into himself like it was the most natural thing in the world. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and Dean was still there, only this time, he was crying, and that was was wrong, very wrong; Cas wanted to say so, but his mouth was too dry, like he'd been eating ash. And then Dean said, _I love you,_ and it was such a perfect, impossible thing that he almost didn't believe it was happening, except that he made himself say, 'I love you, too.'

Dean jerked upright like he'd been stung, and looked at Cas like he'd never seen him before. His eyes were red-rimmed and wet, and what had happened to his arms? He was all wrapped in bandages, and surely that meant it was still a dream, but if so, Cas thought, it was a very painful and specific one; he had a headache, and his other arm hurt when he tried to move it, and he felt tender and slow and sick, but Dean was still there, still saying, 'Cas?' in that rough, shy way that melted his heart, and suddenly he remembered Dean had been missing, and he lurched upright, needing to know that he was alive and OK, that he was really there.

'Dean?' he gasped, and suddenly they were in each other's arms, Dean half on the bed and sobbing brokenly into his shoulder, Cas pulling him close and stroking his hair – and wincing a bit, as the drip in his elbow tugged and pinched – and both of them saying, _I love you, I love you,_ like neither of them could quite believe it enough to stop saying it, just in case it was only an echo, or a dream. But it wasn't, and it couldn't be stolen, and Cas held tight to Dean and said, _I love you_.

When they finally eased apart, Cas sat up a little, and only then did he realise how badly hurt Dean was. Fear punched through him; he gripped his lover's hand and said, 'What happened to you? It wasn't Lassiter, was it? Because I told the FBI how he treated you, what he said, and he's not allowed to come near you, Dean, I promise.'

Dean made a strangled sound, neither tears nor laughter; he stroked Cas's cheek, and Cas leaned into his hand like he'd never been touched before.

'No, it wasn't Lassiter. It was Crowley and Ruby Blue and some bitch called Meg.' He swallowed. 'They knew I'd been talking to the cops, and they thought it was about whatever it is they're planning, and it, uh... it took me a while, to convince them otherwise.'

Pain flashed in his eyes, and Cas, who had never hurt anyone in his life, said evenly, 'I'll kill them.'

'Not if I save you the trouble,' said Dean. All at once, he went tense, looking at Cas like he was afraid of breaking him, and asked, 'Why did you do it, baby?'

'Do what?' Cas said, baffled. 'I didn't –'

And then he realised where he was, and why, and felt his throat close over.

'Oh,' he said. 'Oh god, Dean, it was an accident, I didn't mean – I didn't want to die, I was just so – after the interview, I couldn't cope, and you were missing, and I just wanted to calm down, I swear that's all, I just needed to calm down, but the pills weren't working fast enough, and I couldn't stop –'

Dean kissed him gently, stopping the flow of words, and Cas as kissed him back, the tears on both their cheeks had nothing to do with sorrow.

'I thought I lost you,' Dean whispered, their foreheads pressed together.

Cas inhaled the scent of him, and said, 'Never.' Then he smiled, and patted the edge of the blanket, and said, 'You're too far away, and I'm cold. Get in.'

Dean complied, but slowly: getting his shoes off was a particular struggle, and it pained Cas to see how gingerly he moved, how utterly worn out he was. But then he lifted the covers and climbed in, pillowing his head on Cas's chest, an arm across his ribs. It meant that some of his weight was resting on his injuries, but though Dean winced a little, he didn't change position, and just at that moment, Cas was selfish enough to want him as close as the tiny hospital bed would allow. Protectively, he curled his good arm around Dean's shoulders, and wished they were back at home. Almost, he said so out loud, but as he looked down, he realised his lover had fallen instantly and sweetly asleep against him. Cas watched over him, letting himself be lulled in turn by the steady rhythm of Dean's breath, and without quite meaning to, his eyes slipped steadily closed again, a smile still tugging at his lips.


	21. Chapter 21

The problem with betraying criminals, Ruby Blue reflected, was that they tended to try and betray you right back. You always had to keep three steps ahead and then jump sideways just for good measure, because the knife you were least expecting was, in her bitter experience, the one most likely to get you. She'd made Alastair regret what he did to her face, and by the time Meg had deprived him of both his eyes and certain other pointless extremities, he'd begged her to slit his throat. Or at least, Ruby thought that's what he'd said. He'd been hard to understand without a tongue, but no one could say she hadn't tried.

She was trying with Crowley, too, because unlike Teddy Brimmond – and, indeed, Alastair –the man was an actual vertebrate, and cunning enough to merit some small degree of professional respect. Even so, his lack of subtlety was beginning to disappoint her. Ruby was no stranger to reverse psychology, and despite his careful protestations to the contrary, she's known from the start that he'd wanted Dean Winchester as his muscle. What she didn't know was why, and in the hours since Nick and Victor had cleaned up the last of his blood, it had become less a question of abstract curiosity and more a matter of urgency. Whatever his reasons – and those, too, were a pressing concern – Dean had spoken to the FBI; and as he was Crowley's catspaw, that made Ruby unsettled. She didn't know which possibility was worse: that Crowley had intended this to happen, or that he  _hadn't_ . 

She drummed her nails on the desktop, the problem looping around her thoughts like an oroborous. Dean's value, such as it was, lay in his being a leveraged straight man: he couldn't expose them without also exposing himself, he cared for his lover's safety, and he wanted nothing to do with their criminal politics – meaning, in essence, that he had no dog in this fight beyond getting out alive, with a minimum of fuss. It was why Ruby had indulged Crowley's non-argument in the first place: taking down Alastair had made her enemies, and her current wrangling with rivals more numerous than just Teddy and Crowley meant any local player capable of doing Dean's job either owed their loyalties elsewhere, or was eminently subornable.

Which wouldn't usually matter, provided the right person still ended up dead. But power was a mercurial, tricky thing, and Ruby was still considered a new player: at this level, she had to tread carefully. The friendship between Teddy and Crowley was long-standing enough that openly destroying the former would simply see his allies and resources redistributed to the latter – which is to say, to Crowley – thereby landing her with one powerful opponent instead of two smaller ones. Better to destroy them from the inside out; better still to make it seem as though they'd turned on each other. Crowley still didn't realise that it was Teddy who'd rolled on him to Ruby, spilling the secrets which (for now) kept him under her thumb; and if Teddy's subsequent death was then traced back to Crowley – well. Divide and conquer, as the saying went.

And thus, Dean Winchester: a nearly-neutral party whose criminal history had been served exclusively in Crowley's employ. She'd assumed that was why Crowley wanted him in the first place: he would ask Dean to save Teddy, while Ruby, in turn, would do her best to ensure the opposite outcome. It was a predictable sort of rebellion on Crowley's part – he hardly had any better options – and even if it had actually worked, she'd been prepared to forgive him, provided she still got what she wanted.

But Dean Winchester had been talking to the FBI, and  _that_ changed everything – not just because it meant meddling feds, and not just because it raised the unnerving possibility that Crowley had planned their involvement, but because once Ruby's people knew what Dean had done, she'd had no alternative but to let Meg work him over. Not that it hadn't still been fun to watch, of course, but it narrowed her options: if Dean was working with the FBI, she'd just strengthened their case against her, and if he wasn't, she'd potentially drawn their attention by subjecting someone in their sights to what was obviously torture. Letting him live was a calculated risk – she could replace Dean, but not easily, and not without Crowley having to explain to Teddy why his new security man was suddenly dead. And besides, for all he swore up and down that Lassiter was just being a vindictive prick, Dean Winchester had clearly been hiding something: Ruby wanted to know what it was, and if pain wouldn't elicit the answers, then perhaps watching would.

So she'd asked Vanni to look into Dean's history, check the story about Lassiter, and see what else came up. She already suspected it was true, or she'd never have let him go – as a lie, it was ridiculous, and neither Dean nor Crowley was that imaginative – but there was something else underneath it, something meaty and red that made her fingers itch. Vanni worked fast, but when it came to gathering information, speed was relative, and Ruby was, of necessity, forced to be patient. So she smoked, ashing her cigarettes on the unmarked faces of celebrities in one of Meg's trashy magazines, and listened to Rasputina, and went over the hundred-odd things she had to do before Friday, several of which involved murder, and painted her fingernails ice-blue and blood-cherry, because power meant investing in the details, and appearance – presence – was nothing but.

And then, just after eleven, her solitude was broken by a quick triple-tap on the door, followed almost instantly by the handle turning. Meg's signature entry: a sharp compromise between her joint roles as wetworker (knocking) and lover (unannounced entry). Ruby looked up at her, raising an eyebrow.

'Yes?'

'Vanni's dug up the dirt on Lassiter.'

'And?'

Meg smiled. 'You were right. Dean wasn't lying, but he wasn't telling the whole truth, either. Lassiter's his ex, but that's not why he went after the new boy. Turns out Castiel Novak is all caught up in that Fellowship mess in Nevada, and Lassiter's here to interview him. Or he was, anyway. He's been leashed.'

Now, that was interesting. 'Why?'

'According to Vanni's source, not only did Lassiter go too hard at Novak, but back in the day, he played a little too rough with Dean, Biblically speaking, and Novak was pissed enough to tell the FBI all about it. As of 6pm today, not only is Lassiter benched on the Fellowship case, but rumour has it, there's going to be an investigation into his alleged sexual misconduct. Apparently, it's not the first time it's been raised as an issue with him, either – nothing ever proven, of course, but all those old complaints are starting to stink up the joint. Smart money's on his expulsion for conduct unbecoming, with a possible side order of formal charges.'

A slow, feral smile spread over Ruby's face. 'So what we have, then, is an FBI agent with a history of abuse of power, a burning need to discredit Dean Winchester, and a very small window of time in which to do so.'

'Exactly.' She leaned in close, and Ruby kissed her, hard and sharp, before pulling back, a finger held to Meg's impatient lips. 'And does Vanni have an address for Mr Lassiter?'

'The Stark Hotel, on Hayward.'

That was barely eight blocks away. It was all so stupidly perfect, it took a physical effort not to laugh out loud. 'Crowley's back in his lair, I take it?'

'Hiding like a mole in daylight.'

'Good. And what about Novak? Where's he, last we checked?'

Meg stilled a little, which she always did when she wasn't sure whether Ruby would like what she had to say. 'In hospital,' she said. 'Dean too, apparently.'

Ruby licked her lips. 'And you didn't think that was information worth volunteering?'

'I was going to,' Meg said, uneasily. 'I just didn't want to bury the lead.'

It was an excuse, and they both knew it, but after a pointed pause, Ruby opted to let it slide. 'No chance we can get to him, then. Pity. After your exhibit earlier, we could do with a spare ace.'

'Actually,' said Meg, her tone suddenly sly, 'I might have a solution to that.'

Ruby listened carefully. Then, when Meg was done, she really did laugh, and kissed her thoroughly into the bargain. ' _Good_ girl,' she said, ruffling Meg's hair. 'You go do that.'

'You don't want to come?'

'I would,' said Ruby, sighing apologetically, 'but Lassiter's not going to hook himself. I know I'm not his type, but this isn't the sort of assignment you trust to just anybody.'

Meg's eyes danced. 'You could send Nick. He's pretty enough, if you like that sort of thing.'

Ruby snorted. ' _Nobody_ likes that sort of thing.' She straightened her vest. 'You run on, now. Don't wait up! And  _don't_ ,' she added, 'play with your food. I want leverage, not off meat.'

'Wouldn't dream of it,' Meg said, sulkily.

'Sweetness, you dream of little else.' Ruby cupped her cheek, one lacquered thumbnail trailing along her jaw. 'It's what I love most about you.'

Meg's smile was blood and razors; it suited her perfectly.

 

*

 

It was after midnight, and the hospital cafeteria was closed. Anna couldn't decide whether she was relieved, or if the fact that she was denied access even to terrible food was just adding insult to injury. Either way, she was starving, and Dean looked like he'd been dragged ass-backwards through a barbed wire fence, so she had to find  _something_ . She eyed the vending machines with poorly-disguised contempt for their paltry contents, chocolatey or otherwise, then said, 'Fuck it,' and went back to the nurse's station.

'Can I help you?' asked a tired-looking woman in scrubs.

'Yeah, maybe,' said Anna. 'Know of any good, late-night grease joints around here? I mean, every nurse I've ever met works ridiculously long shifts, so I figure if anyone's going to know, you guys are.'

The woman smiled wryly. 'You're not wrong. Try Sim's Place over on Leifield. It looks like crap, but the food's good, and they serve you quick.'

'Thanks!' said Anna. And then, because the woman really did look run off her feet, 'Hey, you want me to pick you up anything? If I'm going there anyway, I might as well make myself useful.'

The nurse groaned. 'God, please and thank you. I've been on since noon, and I'm starving.'

Anna turned to the woman's colleagues, all of whom were suddenly looking at her like she'd sprouted wings and a halo. 'Anyone else?'

Five minutes later, she left with a written page of orders and a handful of bills, feeling better and more useful than she had all day. She found Sim's easily enough: it was, as promised, greasy and neon-covered, with tacky plastic furniture and a general odour of burned cheese, but the food, when it came – and given how much she'd ordered, it didn't take long – made her mouth water.

'That for the nurses?' the guy at the counter asked.

'Yeah. How did you know?'

He grinned. 'Cos Stella always orders the same thing, is why. Only regular I got ever wants a kebab with chicken and chutney. Here, take this, gratis.' He added an extra Styrofoam box of hot chips to her order. 'Always pays to keep your nurses happy. Day I finally have a heart attack and get carted over there, I don't want nobody skimpin' on the CPR, you know what I'm sayin'?'

Anna smiled, and agreed, and left.

The nurses fell on the food with cries of inarticulate gratitude, leaving Anna to collect her own purchases – two medium pizzas and a bottle of coke – and quietly head back up to K Ward.

'Hey!' someone called after her. Anna turned; it was the first nurse, Stella, who was eating her chicken and chutney kebab with every appearance of bliss.

'Yeah?'

'Thank you. We really appreciate it. Not everyone is that considerate, you know?'

Embarrassed, Anna shrugged. 'Yeah, well. I like to feel needed.'

'Even so, you need anything while you're here, you come ask us, OK?'

'Sure.' She blushed. 'Thanks.'

Stella took a big bite of her kebab and grinned. 'No problem.'

Still a bit pink around the ears, Anna found her way back to K Ward and Cas's room, jimmying the handle with an elbow and entering backwards, her hands full.

'I come bearing sustena – oh!' She stopped, biting her lip to keep from laughing. 'You adorable bastards.'

Setting the food down on the table, she quietly pulled up her chair and helped herself to a slice of pepperoni pizza, the taste of which was only improved by her overwhelming relief. Cas and Dean were fast asleep, cuddled together like overgrown puppies, and given how things had been when she'd left, she was inclined to assume it meant that Cas was going to be OK. Anna ate two more slices in contented silence, washed them down with the coke, and then, after a moment's reflection, decided it would be both pointless and a little creepy of her to stay. Sunday was her day off, anyway – Impala Records was closed, and she wasn't slated to work at Well Bread until Tuesday. All things considered, she figured she owed it to herself to go home and sleep until noon in her own bed, rather than martyring herself in an uncomfortable hospital chair just so she could be there when the boys woke up. They'd call her if they needed something, and if the past week was anything to go by, that would be sooner rather than later.

Leaving them the rest of the food, she wrote Dean a scribbled note on the pizza box explaining her absence, adding a bolded PS asking anyone else who read the message not to throw it out. And then, because she couldn't resist, she took out her phone and snapped a couple of photos of them asleep together, partly for blackmail purposes, but mostly because they were cute as hell, and so clueless about it that photographic evidence would probably go a long way towards helping them. Plus, she badly wanted to see the look on Dean's face when she showed him the shot; he'd be pissed for about three seconds, she figured, and embarrassed for another four, but then there was a solid 80% chance she could make him laugh, and god, it wasn't like he couldn't do with some humour in his life.

She slipped out again, making sure to shut the door quietly. She still had Marie's card stuffed in her pocket, and figured she might as well give her a try. The cabbie answered on the third ring, and said that yes, she was still available.

'You got good timin', honey. I just dropped off a fare. I'll pick you up same place I dropped you off, OK? I'm maybe five minutes out.'

Anna thanked her and hung up. She waved goodbye to the nurses, several of whom were still eating, all of whom smiled at her, and headed out to the carpark.

Marie was right on time, and Anna all but collapsed into the back seat.

'God, what a day!'

'Your friend all right?'

'Yeah, I think. He's an idiot, but he'll live.' As the sentiment applied equally to Cas and Dean, she didn't bother explaining that they were two different idiots, and never more so than when it came to each other.

'Well, I'm glad to hear it.'

'Me, too.'

They were quiet for a moment. Anna was on the brink of asking how Marie had ended up driving a cab when, out of nowhere, her phone rang. Frowning – had Dean woken up already? – she fished it out of her bag, her pulse leaping ever so slightly as the caller ID brought up Gabe's number. It had been days since she'd drunk dialled him, and as she didn't remember that particular conversation, it didn't really count; the last time they'd spoken before that was nearly two weeks ago, before she'd been pleasantly sidetracked by the whole Dean-and-Cas thing.  _So why the hell is he calling me now?_

She forced herself to wait a few rings before answering –  _don't seem to eager; it's not like you've got nothing better to do than wait for him to call_ – and then, in her most nonchalant voice, said, 'Oh! Hi, Gabe.'

'Anna!' slurred Gabe. 'Anna Anna Anna. You called me drunk and left a message thingy, and I thought, can't call a drunk girl back sober! So, 'm not.'

She blinked. 'Is this a _reciprocal drunk dial_?'

'Quid quo pro, Clarice.' She could hear the grin in his voice, and despite everything, it melted her just a little. 'I, uh. Yeah.' She could hear music in the background, and laughter. Wherever he was, he had company. Rafe's party, she remembered belatedly; she'd been planning on going, but after everything, it had slipped her mind. 'So, purely a hypothetical question – this new guy you're seeing, is this, uh, is this a serious thing? Cos, you know. Curious.'

'What new guy?'

' _The_ guy! Or, wait, don't tell me there's more than one.' He actually sounded hurt. 

'Gabe, seriously. There are no guys. There's not even guy, singular.' Then she made the connection, and groaned. 'Oh, wait, wait. Is this about my boss at the record store?'

'Maybe,' said Gabe, warily. 'Leather jacket, looks like he oughta be on the cover of Implausibly Pretty Douchebags Monthly?'

Despite herself, Anna snorted. 'That's Dean, yeah. But Gabe –'

'Well, look, you know, I know I'm not exactly model material, but I have my charms, and if you're too good to show up to Rafe's party like you said you would –'

' _Gabe_ .' She was starting to get cross, now. 'Firstly, who I spend time with is absolutely zero business of yours, OK? You don't get to string me along for weeks, never call me back after the one time we actually do hook up, then act all hurt and jealous and betrayed when I spend time with someone not-you. And secondly, Dean Winchester is not my goddamn boyfriend, on account of the fact that he already  _has_ a boyfriend – who, by the way, is currently in hospital. Which is where I've been all night instead of at Rafe's stupid party: looking after the both of them, and being a decent human being instead of ringing up the girl I dropped like a hot potato the morning after just because I'm freaked out that she might not be pining any more!'

Stunned silence. 'Shit, Anna, I –'

'No!' She'd had enough, and Gabe was the last straw. 'No, Mr Reciprocal Drunk Dial, you can just fuck right off, OK? None of your cutesy bullshit. I am freaked, and I am tired, and I want to go home and sleep for nineteen hours, so you can just get back to your, your tequila martinis or whatever the fuck other alcoholic abomination you're currently foisting on people – and don't even try to pretend you're not, I know what you're like –'

'Ouzo spritzers,' Gabe mumbled, half-guilty, half-proud.

'– god, like that's an improvement? Good  _night_ , Gabe. Call me when you're sober enough to feel sorry for someone other than yourself.' 

She hung up on his spluttered protests.

Marie laughed. 'I only heard half of that, but good for you, honey!'

Anna shut her eyes and rested her head on the window. 'Why are men such idiots?'

'Darwinism,' Marie said, sagely. 'If they were smarter, we'd have even more of 'em, and that'd be just all-round bad.'

'Huh?'

'It's biology, honey. Healthy animal populations always have fewer males and more females, so I figure, if men are collectively dumb, it's nature's way of thinnin' the herd. Way the world is, though, I'd say they could stand to be a little dumber.' She snorted. 'Not like we're exactly lettin' the good times roll right now, you know?'

Anna laughed weakly. There was something weirdly reassuring about problematic cab driver philosophies being a universal constant.

Soon after that, they pulled up in front of her flat. Anna paid Marie, which wiped her out of cash, said goodbye for the second time, and lugged herself over to the apartment block. Once she'd shoved her way in through the main door, which always stuck, she had to stumble down the lightless hallway, swearing at her keys in the dark. Finally, though, she got her door open, and Anna was home. Sliding the bolt behind her, she sighed with relief, dumping her bag on the hall table as she hit the lights and headed into the lounge.

And froze.

'Hello, darling,' said Crowley, rising from a chair. He was pointing a gun at her, and as Anna stared, he waggled it almost apologetically. 'Sorry about this. It's really not my preference, but I'm out of options, and something tells me you're not in a listening mood. So I'm going to have to ask you to trust me on this one: right now, I'm your very best option. I'd like you to remember that. It'll make things easier later.'

And then he shot her.

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

 It was a good dream, at first. He was lying in bed with Cas, explaining why Jane Austen would have listened to Steppenwolf if she'd just been born in the right era, except that Cas kept kissing him, and Dean kept losing the thread of his argument, and then he forgot the argument all together. He kissed his lover, moaning a little as Cas bit his lip, gently at first, then harder, until it stopped being sexy and started to hurt. Dean pulled back and opened his eyes, and suddenly it wasn't Cas any more; it was Lassiter, pressing a flick-knife to Dean's lips like a silencing finger.

'Hey there, beautiful,' he said, and it was Meg's voice, taunting him. 'Want to go again?'

Dean yelped, scrambling backwards, but there was nowhere to go. His spine was hard to the bedroom wall, his arms spread-eagled and bleeding, and Lassiter just smiled Meg's smile and tore another strip of skin from his stomach. He did it slowly, not looking away, and it hurt like nothing he'd ever experienced, like acid and wire and oh, fuck, he was screaming, he was screaming, he –

'Dean!'

He jerked awake, panting and gasping, and almost fell out of bed. His arms and stomach burned, and for a sickening moment, he didn't know what was real or where he was; only that he had to get away.

Warm arms around his waist; a soft voice in his ear. 'Dean, you're safe. You're _safe_.'

He turned, and it was Castiel, not Meg or Lassiter; his Cas, who hadn't died. Dean almost wept with relief, and let himself be gathered against his lover's chest, clinging to him as Cas stroked his back and kissed his neck and told him it was all right. His injuries still stung, but he could ignore them for this. _I could ignore anything for this._

After a moment, Cas reached down and fumbled by the bedside; there was a buzzing sound, and suddenly the mattress was moving, the top half rising up until they had something solid to lean against. Dean laughed, absurdly delighted.

'Man, I want one of these!'

Cas smiled fondly at him. 'Why am I not surprised?'

'Because it's awesome, that's why! We should totally buy one.' And then he realised what he'd said, and choked into embarrassed silence, too shocked at himself to speak. _Why the fuck did I say that?_ You didn't just make a joke about buying a bed with someone, even if you were in love, and what if Cas hadn't really meant it, anyway? It wasn't like they'd both been sane and calm at the time –

'I don't know,' said Cas, blithely interrupting his internal panic. 'I mean, what happens when you want your side up, and I just want to sleep? And this mattress isn't exactly luxurious, either.'

And somehow, Dean replied, 'Oh, like you'd know, like you're the expert on comfort? Your lounge is a literal –'

'– bed of nails. Yeah, so you said.'

'Well, it is!'

'Explain to me how this is better.'

'Cas, it has a _folding back_. How is that not worth a little discomfort?'

'So you agree, it's uncomfortable?'

'I said there was a _little discomfort_. That's different!'

'Barely.'

'Look, your couch is like a punishment from god, OK? Whereas this, right here? This is why apes evolved thumbs, so we could open beer bottles and make electric mattresses that bend on command.'

'Truly among the apex achievements of humankind.'

'Oh, shut up.'

'You first,' said Cas, and kissed him, cupping his cheek as Dean cupped his, and his cuts still hurt, and the bed shape made it awkward, and god, it wasn't like they hadn't done this before, but it was like being hit by a thunderbolt; he went weak all over, shaking badly enough that Cas pulled back and frowned and said, 'Dean? Are you all right?'

'I don't know.' Desperately, he searched Cas's face for clues, for a sign he'd misread everything, that it was all going to break, but found only compassion, which was all the more terrifying for being unfamiliar. 'I don't understand, Cas. I don't know how you can, how anyone could l–' he stammered over the word, '– love me, why you'd want me, I'm not – I'm –'

'Dean.' Cas stroked his cheek, his thumb moving in small, possessive circles over the bone. 'In my entire life, I have never wanted anyone the way I want you.' He gulped, and the vulnerability in those bright blue eyes was almost physically painful. 'I love you.'

Dean was so drymouthed, his reply came out a whisper. 'I love you, too. And I'm terrified. I have no idea how to do this.'

'Me, neither.'

'No, I mean –' the nightmare came back to him, so vivid that he shuddered all over again, '– I'm damaged goods, Cas. I always have been. You've survived some messed up stuff, and I'm not trying to compete with you on that score, don't think for a second I am, but you... you could have anyone.' He met his gaze, and almost drowned in it. 'Anyone you wanted. And I don't understand how that could be me, when I'm... this.'

Cas laughed, breathless and sweet. 'Do you know what I thought, the first time I saw you?'

'That I was an arrogant, selfish jerk?'

'Maybe a little.' He smiled, and somehow, impossibly, Dean smiled, too. 'I also thought that, even if you were into guys, you'd never look twice at me, you were that hot. Everything you did, everything you said – god, you were so _frustrating_ , but then you'd look at me, and I'd forget who I was. I wanted to know you so badly, but I couldn't explain it to myself, and you just kept right on playing your music and _grinning._ And then in the shower, through the wall, I heard you –' he flushed, his thumb grazing across Dean's lips, '– I heard you moan, just once, and I couldn't stop thinking about it, and it had been so long – I told myself I liked being lonely, that it was safer, but I couldn't ignore you, I couldn't wish you away, so I pushed it all down –'

Gently, Dean bit Cas's thumb, lipping the knuckle. 'And then you kissed me.'

'And then I kissed you,' Cas agreed, 'and you kissed back. And I couldn't pretend any more.'

'All right.' Dean shut his eyes, which somehow made it easier, and pressed their foreheads together. 'So we don't know what we're doing. We'll figure it out. Just... be patient with me, OK?'

'I'm a patient man,' said Cas, and as if to prove it, he leaned in and kissed him so slowly, it was almost unbearable, letting his lips steal over Dean's at glacial speed, his tongue flicking in, until they seemed to melt together. When Dean finally broke away, the glazed look on Cas's face almost undid him: he was hurt and weak enough that arousal should have been impossible, but not so long ago, he'd thought that about love, too; yet here he was.

'Um,' said Dean, breathless. Having sex in a hospital room with an unlocked door when you were already in pain was, he knew, an objectively terrible idea, but in that moment, Cas could have asked anything of him, and he would have done it. And that was terrifying in a whole new way, the desperate, churning need in his gut a snarled-up product of love and lust and fear and self-hatred, because he'd let himself start thinking about Lassiter again, and now he couldn't stop. He hadn't been lying last night, he realised; he did need to talk about it, and soon, especially after what Meg had done – what she'd _said_ – or it was going to cripple him; he could feel the coming collapse in his blood, the same way you knew a busted knee couldn't take your weight up the next hill. But this wasn't the time for Lassiter; not here, not like this. So he glanced around for something, anything, to distract him – to distract them both.

And found it, in the form of a pizza box. Or rather, two pizza boxes, stacked on the bedside table; the top one had something scrawled on the lid, but it was too far away for Dean to make out.

'Hey, Cas? Can you pass me that?'

'Pass you what – oh!' Cas blinked and complied. 'Where did that come from?'

By way of an answer, Dean read the message aloud. ' _Dear losers. I would have told you to get a room, but you're already in one, which makes me the third wheel. Have some pizza and feel better. I'm going home to sleep. Call me if you need me! But I'm super tired, so please try not to need me before noon. Love, Anna. PS: Nurses please don't throw this out!_ ' He opened the lid, and there, glory of glories, was an entire supreme pizza. 'Oh my god,' he breathed. 'Oh my god.'

Almost reverently, he picked up a slice. Even cold, it was magnificent, and for the next five minutes, he was completely lost. Cas was more circumspect, but even he couldn't resist entirely. The second box contained yet more food, and by the time they were done eating, Dean was just about ready to give Anna all of Crowley's money as a friend-and-employee-of-the-month bonus, straight up.

'We should call her,' Cas said, licking the grease from his fingers. 'To say thanks.'

'Yeah,' said Dean. 'We should.'

It was a good idea on multiple levels. Dean had just enough healthy self-awareness to know that mixing two types of crazy didn't make sane, and he and Cas were definitely crazy. Anna's friendship balanced them out: she was kind and funny, clever and well-adjusted, and she didn't seem to get stuck in loops like they did. But she was also her own person, and after everything she'd already done for them, it would have been selfish as hell to call her – he glanced at the wall clock – at 9.30am on a Sunday, even if they had only wanted to say thanks, and not just bask in her presence like she was some magical, common-sense-emitting sunlamp. So he smiled and said, 'Later, though. We should let her sleep in. She's earned it.'

 

*

 

Anna tumbled from sleep to waking with all the grace of a kneecapped giraffe. She was groggy and disoriented, pins and needles buzzing like wasps in every limb; her eyes were so gummed up, she could barely see. Her mouth felt weird, too, like it was glued shut, and when she tried to move –

She _couldn't_ move, she realised: her ankles and wrists were bound together, and there was tape, electrical tape over her mouth, just spit-loosened enough that she could twitch her lips, but nothing more. She bucked and spasmed with panic, blinking to try and clear her eyes.

'Ah. Sleeping beauty awakes!'

The voice was English, male, and raspy as a cat's tongue. It took her a moment to place it, and once she did, her blood ran cold: _Crowley_. He'd been in her flat – _the bastard fucking_ shot _me!_ She thrashed in place, desperately trying to see herself, to figure out how she was injured, then stopped, confused, when she felt no pain beyond the pins and needles. She lay back on her side – she was on a bed, on a horrible floral print duvet – and suddenly, she could see her captor, smug and smiling. But also, she realised, tired; there were dark circles under his eyes, and though he kept them laced together, his fingers periodically twitched. And with that, her brain finally kicked all the way into gear, leavening her terror with rational thought.

_OK, Anna. Freak out later. You're alive, you're unhurt, and you are damn well going to stay that way. So, think! What the hell does he want with you?_

Not being able to ask the latter question out loud, she settled for glaring at Crowley as though, if she just stared hard enough, he'd burst into flames. He chuckled.

'Now, now. Don't look at me like that. You should be thanking me. A lesser man would've shot you with actual bullets, not a tranquilliser dart, and a crueller one would have left you to the decidedly untender ministrations of the psychotic harridan who's currently hunting you down. So, you're welcome.' When Anna continued to stare at him in uncomprehending fury, he sighed and raised an eyebrow. 'Does the name Meg ring any bells? Brunette, likes knives, spent the better part of yesterday evening stripping the skin off your boss?' Anna's eyes widened, and Crowley smiled. 'And there, the penny drops. I'm not the enemy, love.' He stepped forward, crouching down beside the bed, so their eyes were on a level. 'Now, if I take that tape off, do you think we might talk to each other like civilised adults, or are you going to scream? Because if the latter, I should warn you –' his eyes glittered, '– there are limits to my patience. So. Will you behave?'

Anna gulped and nodded.

'There's a good girl,' said Crowley, and ripped the tape off her mouth in one swift action.

Anna gasped and spluttered, rubbing her stinging skin. _'Ugh!_ God, what the actual hell? Why does anyone want _me_?'

'An intelligent question. May I?'

He gestured at the bed, and it took Anna a moment to realise he was asking her permission to sit down. Or at least, he was courteously pretending to ask, on account of the fact that she was clearly in no position to refuse him anything, but staying calm under these conditions meant any port in a storm; she nodded as if she had a choice, and Crowley sat, and Anna wriggled upright into a sitting position, her wrists bound in her lap and her back against the bed's headboard.

'Here's the short answer,' Crowley said. 'Right now, the eastern half of the United States – and, more specifically, Monument – contains exactly two people of any importance to Dean Winchester: Castiel Novak, and you. Which, frankly, says more about him than anyone else; but the point, dear Anna, is that it makes you valuable.'

'Valuable?'

Crowley sighed, a dedicated teacher with a foolish student. 'Castiel is in hospital, yes?'

'Yeah.'

'Which means he's protected. I mean, if Ruby just wanted him dead, that would be one thing, but she doesn't: what she wants is for Dean Winchester to lie down and behave, and all things being equal, it's much harder to threaten someone's safety when they're surrounded by doctors and watched by the FBI. How, then, is she to achieve her ends?'

 _Oh, fuck._ 'By threatening me instead.'

Crowley tapped the side of his nose. 'Penny for the smart lady.'

'But you... don't want me threatened?'

'Not quite,' said Crowley. 'Not by Ruby Blue, at least. See, I'm presently in what you might call a perilous position. I want Dean to do one thing; Ruby wants him to do the opposite. Who's he going to listen to? If Ruby has you up her sleeve, it's not going to be me, and more to the point, I'll have a pissed off Winchester on my hands once he calms down enough to remember I'm the one who roped him into this mess, and an equally pissed off Ruby once she realises I've been playing both sides against the middle. But if, on the other hand, you're up _my_ sleeve – well, then. Tables turned. And, of course, it doesn't hurt my case with Dean that Meg would most likely have tortured you for the sheer fun of it, had I left you alone. She's kinky that way.'

Anna tried to suppress a shiver, and failed. 'Shit.'

'Precisely. So, for the moment –' Crowley stood, gesturing to the tiny, peach-wallpapered surrounds of what appeared to be an incredibly tacky motel room, '– _mi casa su casa_ , as they say. You sit tight here, I let Dean know you're safe, and if all goes well, you'll be home again in a couple of days.'

'A couple of _days?_ ' Anna wriggled her feet, which were securely zip-tied and taped at the ankles. 'What, you want me to sit here and piss myself for forty-eight hours?'

'Hardly,' Crowley said, disgusted. 'I was rather hoping you'd choose to cooperate.'

'Just stay put, you mean? Be a free-range captive?'

'Call it a weekend off.' At her look, he waved an exasperated hand. 'I'm not a complete monster, for god's sake! The room has cable!'

Anna snorted. 'Oh, well, gee. Great! When you put it like that –'

' _Listen_ ,' hissed Crowley, 'you can't go home, all right? Meg has been to your place. I had eyes on it after I took you, and once she found it empty, she was not a happy bunny. You leave here, I guarantee she'll find you, and when she does, you won't like what happens next.'

'If this is all for my own good,' said Anna, 'then why the fuck did you shoot me? Why not just explain it outright?'

Crowley just looked at her. 'Would you have come with me if I did?'

'Probably not, but I would've liked the option.'

'Tough.'

They glared at each other, and as the seconds ticked by, Anna realised she was genuinely scared – of Crowley, yes, but more of the possibility that he might be telling the truth. She'd known Dean was into something shady from the outset, and even though it had gone against her better judgement, she'd squeezed a few details out of him by Cas's bedside. She still didn't fully understand what Ruby Blue wanted, whoever she was, but she'd seen what Meg had done to Dean, and had absolutely no desire to learn what it felt like first hand. And Crowley, for all that he was clearly a duplicitous, bottom-feeding scumfox – to borrow one of Gabe's uniquely compelling pejoratives – hadn't actually hurt her. Well, OK: he'd shot her with a fucking _tranquiliser_ , of all things, tied her up and taken her hostage, but nothing she'd need to see a psychologist to recover from. _Yet,_ whispered a nervous voice in her head, and that was enough to send goosebumps up her arms.

And honestly, the most compelling piece of evidence as to Crowley's honesty was her own insignificance otherwise. She was Anna Milton: college dropout, part-time barista and sometime CD-seller, and that was it. She had just enough money left in the bank to pay rent this month, a mostly estranged and eccentric family with no ties to anyone important, and no mysterious secret billionaire boyfriend to pay her ransom. (Though the idea of Gabe offering to trade Crowley one of his godawful drinks, or possibly sexual favours, in exchange for her safe return, was admittedly compelling, if only because she could all too readily imagine Crowley's look of utter feline affront at Gabe's puppyish overtures. _God, I have terrible taste in men. Assuming I don't die, remind me to start dating women._ ) The point being, there wasn't another plausible explanation for why Crowley would be interested in her, and why he was also willing to leave her untied. If he'd wanted her hurt, he could quite easily have done that by now; hell, he could've killed her in her sleep, or just shot her outright in the first place. But he hadn't: he'd let her wake up, and talk, and maybe he really was just that subtle, that clever, that she was missing his real motive, but somehow, she didn't think so.

 _I'm going to regret this,_ Anna thought. _No, wait, scrap that. I already do._

'Tell you what,' she said finally, hoping her voice didn't shake. 'You let me be the one to call Dean, to explain what's happening – I mean, you tell him your bit, but I tell him mine, no interruptions or censorship – and I'll stay here as long as you want. I won't so much as look at the door.'

Crowley studied her for a long, hard moment. Then he nodded, and smiled like a ferret. 'All right, love.' He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a mobile – _her_ mobile, Anna realised, and experienced a momentary flash of outrage at the presumption. 'Let's hop to it, shall we?'


	23. Chapter 23

Hospital, Cas quickly realised, was not Dean's favourite place. From the moment he'd woken, sweaty and shaking, from a nightmare he refused to discuss, he'd been on edge, more unsettled than Cas had ever seen him. He was doing his best to keep it under control, but the more staff came to visit them, the more obviously Dean telegraphed his discomfort; or at least, it was obvious to Cas. The day nurses, though, either didn't notice or didn't care, their cheerful-professional patter unaffected by the distress it elicited. Asked to fill out his insurance forms, Dean tensed, the fingers of his pen-hand twitching with every line. When a smiling woman came to change his dressings, he wouldn't meet Cas's gaze, staring fixedly at the far corner. Selfishly, part of Cas was grateful for this lack of eye contact. The rage that filled him on seeing Dean's injuries – blistering burns in place of lovebites; thin, scabbing cuts too shallow for stitching; the awful, raw lines of his stomach – was overpowering and unfamiliar, and not something he wanted his lover to see in him.

'How did you say this happened again?' the nurse asked dubiously, so tactless Cas could have throttled her.

'Crazy sex games,' said Dean, flatly. 'Next time, I'm buying a  _classy_ hooker.' 

The nurse snorted, but didn't look up from her work; only Cas saw the muscle work in Dean's jaw, the way his shoulders hunched as she touched him, as though he were fighting the urge to pull away. It was agonising; Cas wanted to scream at her to get out, but it was a hospital, she was doing her job, and even if that hadn't mattered, he didn't know if Dean would thank him for it. So he waited, teeth clenched, until it was his turn to be poked and prodded, his vitals checked and a blood sample drawn. But for all that he'd overdosed, Cas felt fine; even his bruises were nearly gone, and as the nurse herself explained – as oblivious to his anger as to Dean's distress – it wasn't as though he'd taken heroin or bleach, something that could actually damage him. He still had a psych evaluation to pass, but physically, he was more or less in tact.

The moment she finally left, Cas walked around to Dean's side of the bed and sat beside him, waiting quietly for his lover to look up. All he wanted to do was hold him, but if there was one thing Cas understood, it was physical triggers: Dean was trembling, his knuckles as white as old jade where he gripped the mattress, and Cas knew, with an absolute, bone-deep certainty, that he shouldn't be touched until he was ready; until he'd collected himself.

Finally, after two full minutes, Dean exhaled and shook himself, glancing up at Cas like he was half-afraid the wouldn't be there.

'Hey,' said Cas, softly.

'Hey,' croaked Dean. He was rocking in place, lips parted as though the right words were jammed in his throat. 'How you feeling?' he finally asked, and it was so clearly not what he 'd been planning to say that, before Cas could answer, he blurted, 'I can't. Not here.'

'It's OK.'

Dean's head jerked up. 'No, it's not, Cas. This is so very far from OK, it's not even in the same hemisphere.'

'Dean –'

'God, we need to get out of here.  _I_ need to get out of here.'

'I know. We will.'

He made a strangled sound. 'Will you stop comforting me, please? I feel like a zoo animal.'

Cas fell silent, waiting again.

'I'm sorry,' Dean said. He rested his face in his hands. 'I'm sorry, Cas. I'm a mess today. Hell, I'm always a mess, but this is... messier.'

Cas stroked the backs of his knuckles. 'Yesterday morning, your abusive ex showed up and threatened you. In the afternoon, you were kidnapped and tortured, and in the evening, you came home to find me overdosed in the kitchen. I think you're allowed to be messy.'

'Our lives are not the lives of regular people, are they?'

'Regular people?' Cas pulled a face. 'Those exist?'

'I've heard rumours.' The barest glimmer of a smile. 'Maybe I should check Snopes, though.'

'Maybe you should.'

Dean took his hand, and Cas squeezed it gently. For a moment, they just sat together. Then, very quietly, Dean said, 'I figured it out, you know. Last night. When Meg was... when I was taken.'

'Figured what out?'

'Why I got kicked out of the army. How it happened.' He looked so far away, it seemed impossible they were still touching. 'I did get caught on purpose. Got Lassiter caught. All these years, I told myself I didn't know the truth, that I'd been too scared to think straight. And I was afraid, Cas. I was. But not of dying.' He took a shuddering breath. 'I just didn't know how else to make him stop.'

Slowly, Cas put his arms around Dean, and Dean leaned into him, warm and solid and real, and whispered, 'Please don't hurt me.'

Inwardly, Cas froze. 'I don't – I would never –'

'No.' Dean buried his face in Cas's shoulder, gripping the hem of his hospital gown. 'No, you don't understand. If I say – if I act like I want – if I ever ask you to hurt me, don't. Please, don't.'

'I won't,' said Cas, and now they were both shaking, both clinging to each other like they'd fallen off the edge of the world, and Cas thought,  _I will kill them. Anyone who ever hurt you, anyone who tries again, I'll kill them, I'll walk through fire for you,_ as he said out loud, 'I promise, I swear, you're safe with me,' and kissed his lover's cheek.

'Are you OK, though?' Dean asked, once his breathing had returned to normal.

'I am,' said Cas, and was startled to realise it was true. He felt like he'd come out the other side of something, as though the charcoal he'd been given had purged his system of more than just pills. Since the day he'd left the compound, it seemed, his whole adult life had been a process of katabasis, descending steadily into a hell he'd thought was bottomless, and empty except for himself. People had cared for him, but he'd never felt worthy of it, and either they'd given up on him, repelled by his awkward intensity, or else had died too soon, like John Aveline. He'd been starving, so hollowed out by want that he'd forgotten there were other ways to feel – and then Dean Winchester had moved in, with his stupid car and that smile like sunlight piercing stormclouds, and Cas had fallen so hard, so fast, it had utterly redefined his sense of gravity. Nobody else had ever made him feel as safe, as worthy, as  _loved_ , as Dean did, and while Cas had been wanted before, he'd never been truly needed; not the way Dean needed him, or the way he needed Dean. 

This wasn't katabasis; not any more. It was anabasis, ascent into light, and just for a moment, Cas felt if his scars were truly wings, and not just a mockery of them.

All this flashed through his head in the time it took Dean to lift his own and ask, almost disbelievingly, 'You're sure?'

Cas pressed a kiss to his forehead. 'You saved me,' he said, simply. 'In every way that matters, you saved me. Dean, I –'

The phone rang; which is to say, Dean's mobile rang; which is to say, a tinny version of the opening chords of Back in Black started playing, because apparently Cas's lover was not above spending money on custom ringtones. Startled, they just stared at each other – and then they both burst out laughing. Cas almost doubled over, reduced to helpless paroxysms as Dean clutched his stomach, tears streaming down his cheeks, his helpless laughter punctuated by little gasps of pain.

'You look ridiculous,' Cas choked out, cackling like somebody's drunk uncle. 'God, just answer it, will you?'

'I'm trying!' Still laughing, Dean flopped back on the bed and finally fished the phone from his pocket, squinting at the screen. 'It's Anna! I'll put her on speaker.' He thumbed the button and gasped out, 'Anna! Thanks for the pizza! Cas is awake, he can hear you, too. How, uh, how's your morning?'

'Honestly? Not what I was expecting.'

And then, like a slap to the face, a second, familiar voice said, 'Hello, boys.'

 

*

 

Dean sat up so fast, he almost knocked Cas over. ' _Crowley?_ '

'The very same.'

'It's OK, Dean,' added Anna, though she sounded more resigned than enthusiastic. 'I mean, for a given value of OK. Your buddy here shot me with a tranquilliser last night and dragged me to some dive motel with the ugliest wallpaper known to man, but apparently it's for my own safety, on account of how Meg wants a piece of me, too.'

' _Meg?_ ' Dean's pulse was through the roof; he could barely breathe. 'Crowley, you son of a bitch, if you hurt her –'

'– you'll get very butch and masculine and do unspeakable, unlubricated things to me? Yeah, yeah. I'm feeling very threatened. But unless you'd prefer your ladyfriend here to have ended up in Ruby Blue's hands, I'd put the brakes on the outrage train.'

'Explain,' Dean growled. 'Fast.'

'Well, precious –' Crowley began, but Anna cut him off.

' _Basically_ ,' she said, the emphasis strong enough that Dean could practically hear her glaring, 'threatening Cas is no longer deemed an adequate source of leverage to make you do... whatever the hell this is all about, on account of how he's kind of protected and inaccessible right now, and as you're such an antisocial hermit, that makes me the next best thing to compel your obedience.' She snorted. 'Really, I'm flattered, but also sort of pissed. You couldn't have shittier taste in friends?'

Dean gulped. 'Apparently not.'

'They were threatening me?' said Cas, his voice deceptively calm.

'Nothing personal,' said Crowley, 'but yes.'

Dean forced himself to meet Cas's gaze. 'I didn't want you to worry.'

'I understand.' Cas stroked his cheek. 'But you can tell me anything.'

'Hey, hey!' Crowley snapped. 'Stop having a tender moment and focus on the matter at hand.'

'Oh yeah?' said Dean. 'And what would that be, exactly, other than the fact that you've kidnapped our friend and expect us to just take your word that it's for her own good?'

'The matter being,' said Crowley, utterly unperturbed, 'that Ruby's moved up her schedule. The meet is today, Dean. Same time, same place. Be there or be –' there was a pointed pause, '– a very bad friend indeed.'

' _Tonight?_ ' Dean stared at the phone. 'Are you insane?'

'It's been suggested, but in this instance, the answer is hardly relevant. Not my call, Winchester. Not my department.'

'I have a question,' said Cas, while Dean floundered. 'Supposedly, you've taken Anna to keep her safe from Meg, correct?'

'That's what I said, yes.'

'And Meg wants Anna as leverage over Dean?'

'Clever boy.' Crowley's voice was dripping with sarcasm. 'Is there a point to all this, Castiel?'

'Yes, actually. If you're protecting Anna from Meg, and I'm no longer a source of leverage, then how, exactly, does Ruby plan to make Dean do anything? Why should he show up tonight, if she doesn't have any cards up her sleeve? Unless, of course, Ruby  _does_ know you have Anna, and you're still acting on her behalf.'

'Goddamit, Crowley!' Dean shut his eyes. 'Meg was never in play at all, was she? You're just covering your ass, so I'll keep Teddy Brimmond alive instead of letting him die.'

There was a moment of stunned silence, into which Anna said, forcefully, ' _Fuck_ .'

Crowley sighed. 'You really are a glass half empty person, aren't you, Dean? Look, I wasn't lying about Meg – Ruby sent her to get Anna, and I just so happened to arrive first. Now, look into your heart of hearts, and tell me I'm not the lesser evil in this situation. Devil you know, and all that.'

'But?'

'But nothing!' Crowley shouted. 'Of course I told Ruby I had her, because I'm not a complete moron. If I hadn't, she'd know I was working against her, and believe me when I say that revelation wouldn't go well for any of us. This way, Ruby still thinks she's calling the shots, Anna's not getting tortured, and you fulfil your contractual obligations by showing up at the Lucifer tonight.'

'You  _lied_ to me!' Anna said, though she sounded angrier at herself than the loan shark.

Crowley chuckled. 'Lies of omission don't count, love. Everyone knows that.'

Dean ran his hands down his face. 'Well, that's... that's really something, Crowley. Are you forgetting I'm in hospital for a reason? I'm not exactly at peak condition right now, and if the plan is for me to get into a dust-up with some hired thug of Ruby's –'

'This isn't a negotiation, Dean. Either you show up tonight of your own free will, or I'll have to force you.' There was a clicking noise, followed by a sharply swallowed whimper. 'Darling, do you want me to force him?'

'No,' whispered Anna.

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. 'Crowley,  _don't_ . I'll be there, I'll do what you want, but then you let her go, OK? You let Anna go, and then you disappear. You harm a hair on her head, you threaten Cas again – hell, you so much as sneeze in the same postcode as either of them, and god help me, but you will die slow and bloody. Do I make myself clear?'

'Crystal,' said Crowley, his unseen smile like grease in the air. 'See you later, Dean. Oh, and one more thing – the suit I promised is at your flat. I'm a man of my word, after all. Let's hope, for Anna's sake, you're a man of yours.'

He hung up.

'Son of a  _bitch_ !' Dean yelled, and hurled his phone at the wall. It shattered, glass and plastic falling to the floor like hard confetti; he shot to his feet, chest heaving with the need to move, to break something else, to run – anything. And then Cas was holding him, those broad hands warm on the skin of his back, anchoring him to here, to now.

'I have to go,' he said, brokenly. 'Cas, I  _have_ to.' 

'Dean –'

'No.' He stepped back, fists clenched so hard, he could feel his pulse in every cut Meg had given him. 'Don't you dare tell me it's OK, that there's another way, that we'll figure it out, because that's bullshit, Cas, and we both know it. Either I go tonight, or someone I care about gets hurt.'

'So, what – I'm just meant to let you martyr yourself? Dean, these people  _tortured_ you. They dragged you into their petty violence because they could, because they don't give a rat's ass whether you live or die. You're expendable to them, that's all. But not to me.' Cas cupped Dean's face, thumbs stroking gently against his cheeks. 'Never to me.'

'There's no other way, Cas. I wish there was, but there isn't.'

'We could tell the police, get them to –'

Dean laughed, the sound as sharp and painful as a snapped rib. 'The police? You want to trust Anna's life to the  _police_ ?'

'Is that any worse than trusting yours to Crowley?'

'Yes,' said Dean, suddenly furious, 'and you wanna know why? Because Crowley, for all his faults – and believe me, they are many – isn't an incompetent, sexist, racist dickbag who could give two shits about whether some poor black woman lives or dies. We go to any station in Monument, tell them the stakes, and I guarantee you, Cas, I fucking  _guarantee_ it, that if the powers that be have to choose between arresting someone and keeping Anna safe, they'll take the arrest, because she means nothing to them, all right?' He wrenched away from his lover's touch, unable to bear the shock on his face. 'I mean, shit, Cas, why do you think I'm not a cop any more? I tried to be a good man, I tried to do right by people, but when you're working with a bunch of assholes who think that being any darker than spray-tan orange is a criminal offence, push comes to shove, you're still going to wind up across the desk from some shitstain asking you to sign off on a falsified report that says the brown kid your white  _buddies_ killed –' he spat the words, '– was holding a gun, and not a fucking  _phone_ . At least fucking  _Crowley_ has a vested interest in keeping Anna alive, so I don't hunt him down and rip his spine through his throat; at least he's  _answerable_ to someone. But  _cops_ , Cas? Anna deserves better from us than that.'

Cas exhaled slowly. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I didn't – I never thought –' He stopped, lost for words. 'I don't know what to say.'

Dean slumped; the rage had gone, replaced by the sour, acidic taste of guilt and old grief. 'Shit, Cas, it's not your fault. I'm not mad at you, I know there are good cops out there, but I just – I can't trust to that, you know? Not for something like this; not for Anna. Today of all days, I wish I could, but I just can't, because even if I didn't know better, it's still taking all my faith to believe this is real, that I'm not about to lose you, or chase you away, or –' He swallowed hard. 'I feel like I'm coming undone. I thought I had it together, but I don't, I never did, and now I need to be someone else again, someone I haven't – that I'm not – and I don't know how to do it, Cas, I can't pretend any more. Not about this. Not about anything. So, please. Please don't say anythi–'

Cas stepped up and kissed him, a light press of lips that was almost chaste; but Dean didn't want a bar of chastity from Cas, not then and probably not ever. He kissed back hungrily, open-mouthed, and suddenly Cas was pressed to the wall, gasping as Dean push-pulled him closer, his fingers buried in Cas's hair. He wished they were somewhere else, that he didn't hurt, that nothing did; but when Cas slid his hands along Dean's hips, he brushed against his injured skin, and Dean jerked backwards, hissing with pain.

Cas snatched his hands away, eyes wide. 'Oh, god, I'm sorry! Are you all right?'

'Fine,' said Dean, wincing. 'Though I should maybe invest in some Kevlar before tonight, huh?'

'That could be arranged,' said an unfamiliar voice.

Dean whirled. Standing in the doorway was a smartly-dressed Asian woman with piercing eyes and a sardonic smile. 'The hell?'

The woman approached and held out a hand. 'You must be Dean Winchester. I'm Special Agent Bao; I interviewed Castiel yesterday.'

Dean shook hands automatically, too flummoxed for coherency. 'I – you – what?'

Cas looked quietly furious. 'She took over from Lassiter. I rang her to say you were missing, but she never called back.'

'I never called back,' Bao countered, 'because there was no need. In finding Mr Winchester, I also found you, and at that point, a phone call would hardly have helped. On which subject,' she added, flicking her gaze to encompass them both, 'I really must apologise for eavesdropping. It wasn't my intention, but the door was ajar, and you weren't exactly quiet.'

'Oh,  _fuck,_ ' Dean breathed. 'How long were you listening?'

'Long enough. I was poised to knock when your phone rang, and as the subsequent conversation answered most of the questions I'd planned to ask, I thought it simpler all round to let things play out. So.' She smiled, as bright and sharp as the sword of Damocles. 'Tell me more about Ruby Blue.'

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

It didn't take Bao long to cut to the heart of Dean's arrangement with Crowley, how he'd gotten involved with Ruby, the whole sordid business with Meg, and what it meant that the meeting originally scheduled for Friday had been pushed to that afternoon. Cas was reduced to the role of bystander, unable to offer anything more than silent support as Dean was subjected to Bao's quick questions, until the Special Agent sat back, hands folded in her lap, and quirked her lips thoughtfully.

'Well, Mr Winchester. This is a pretty mess, isn't it?'

'That's one way of looking at it,' Dean said. His tone was calm, but Cas could tell how tired he was, and when he quietly slipped an arm around Dean's waist, his lover leaned against him.

'For instance,' Bao went on, 'I'd be well within my rights to arrest you for conspiracy, aiding and abetting – hell, I could probably work obstruction of justice in there, too. But on the other hand –' and here she glanced at Cas, '– I'll admit to feeling somewhat responsible for Mr Novak's... episode, and that makes me inclined towards leniency; provided, of course, you assist the FBI in bringing Ruby Blue to justice. By your own account, the criminal activities of Messers Crowley and Brimmond clearly cross state lines, which makes this a federal matter, and with everything that's going on in Nevada, the department – and my bosses – could use a win.'

Dean's smile was bitter as black coffee. 'Of course they could.'

'Here's what I propose,' said Bao. 'You go in, just as Crowley wants, but with FBI backup. You tip us off when everyone is present; we come in and round up the herd. Your testimony directly incriminates Ruby, Meg and Crowley; we cut Crowley a deal to ensure the safety of your friend, Anna –' Cas raised his eyebrows at that; Dean merely snorted, while Bao ignored them both, '– and the rest takes care of itself.'

'And Ruby's assassin?' Cas asked, sharply. 'How do they figure in the mix?'

'The way I see it,' Bao said, 'she's doing this all as a display piece. It's theatre: she wants everyone to see Crowley proven incompetent, and she can't do that without an audience. The audience arrives, Dean calls for us, and backup arrives before the assassin. Simple.'

Dean just stared at her. 'Simple. Really. How dumb do you think I am?'

'It's not a question of intelligence, Mr Winchester; it's a question of options – specifically, the fact that you have none. According to you, the meet is meant to happen at 4pm, which gives me less than six hours to pull this together. Now, if I were working out of my home office, that would be one thing, but out here in Monument, I'm an interloper, and with all the politicking over Nevada and Lassiter's suspension, I'm already treading on toes.'

Dean tensed. 'Lassiter's suspended?'

'As of yesterday, yes, pending an internal investigation.' Bao hesitated. 'Mr Novak informed me of Daniel's... of your personal history with Special Agent Lassiter, and while you yourself would need to make an official complaint or press formal charges against him in order to seek redress on that count, he has previously been the subject of other such, ah, accusations.'

Cas curled his fingers protectively around Dean's hip. 'What sort of accusations?'

Bao looked uncomfortable. 'Nothing was ever proven,' she said, 'or he wouldn't still be with us. But from what I can gather, he was warned, sternly, to be scrupulous in the future.'

'Meaning?' Dean snarled. He was shivering; Cas pulled him closer.

'Meaning,' Bao said, bluntly, 'that someone high up protected him once, but will happily see him burned this time to save their own reputation. At this point, he's more or less being pressured to jump before he's pushed.'

Cas glared at her. 'Oh, right. Because haven forbid the FBI be scandalised by an actual, concrete record of what he did. Just launder the dirt in-house, and no one needs to know, is that it?'

Bao stared him down. 'You'd rather put your lover through the stress of making a formal complaint?'

Dean lifted his chin. 'If it keeps him from hurting anyone else, I'd do it in a heartbeat,' he said. And maybe Bao believed him; he said it firmly enough, and she didn't press the issue. But Cas was close enough to feel Dean shudder, sweating at the prospect, and in that moment, he hated Lassiter as he'd never hated anyone who wasn't Brother Tiberius.

'Regardless,' said Bao, after a moment, 'the point being, I don't have that many resources at my disposal for something like this, and we're working within a perilously narrow timeframe. Backup-wise, I can manage maybe four agents; ordinarily, I'd draft in the local police as well, but if Ruby's as well-connected as she seems to be, then I'm not about to risk tipping her off through the bought-and-bent grapevine. But believe me when I say I want to help. I want these bastards caught, and I certainly want to see your friend recovered, safe and sound.'

'Yeah,' said Dean, sarcastically. 'I'm sure you do.'

Bao raised an eyebrow. 'Do I look white to you? Or male, for that matter? Believe it or not, Mr Winchester, but as much as I love law enforcement, I'm well aware of its failings around issues of race and gender. I will  _not_ –' and here her voice turned hard, '– let Anna be seen as expendable.  _That's_ a promise.' 

Dean looked genuinely abashed. 'Fair enough,' he mumbled. And then, more firmly, 'Even so, this isn't exactly a cake walk. I don't have a lot of details on what to expect, you know? The place could be swarming with muscle, and if so, then four of your agents ain't exactly going to cut it.'

'I can see that,' said Bao. 'And yet, I say again: take it or leave it.'

_You don't have to do this,_ Cas wanted to say. But they'd already had that conversation, and even if he'd wanted to have it again, Bao's offer was still as close to a best option as they had. So instead, he kissed Dean's cheek, and stroked his side – being careful, this time, to miss his bandages – and murmured, 'Whatever you decide, I'm with you.'

Dean didn't hesitate. 'I'll do it,' he said.

 

*

 

When Crowley hung up the phone, he kept the gun to Anna's head, and without even having to ask, she knew this one didn't shoot tranquillisers. 

'Now then,' he said. 'I'm a reasonable man. You're feeling betrayed. I understand that. But it doesn't change why you're here, or what will happen if you suddenly decide to try and leave. If I put this gun away, are you going to behave? Or do we have to negotiate a new, more restrictive agreement?'

'I'll behave,' said Anna, hating him.

'Good,' said Crowley, satisfied. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I have things to do, places to be, people to kill. Just you stay here and watch some TV. My men are right outside. Relax.' He grinned at her. 'One way or another, this will all be over soon.'

Anna shuddered, and picked up the remote.

 

*

 

It took Special Agent Bao three phone calls and ninety minutes to arrange Dean's backup, during which time lunch arrived, another nurse came to check on them, and Cas underwent his psych evaluation. He passed it easily enough, but under advice from Bao, he agreed to stay a further day in hospital 'for observation', which here translated to 'for his own safety'.

'I'll have someone keep an eye on you, just in case,' Bao said.

Cas ignored her, and went to get cleaned up: he was sick of the hospital gown, and he stank of old sweat. He took his time in the shower, wishing absurdly that Dean would just walk in and join him, heedless of Bao's stern presence in the next room. It was a hypnotic possibility: the door would open, Dean would enter – uninjured and bandage-free, in this fantasy version – and Cas would kiss every inch of him, teasing with fingers and tongue, until neither of them could take it any more. He groaned quietly, but didn't bring himself off: as vivid as his imagination was, it wasn't a patch on the real thing. He could be patient.

When he returned, washed and dressed and once more in control of himself, it was to find that a new FBI representative, one Agent Cross, had arrived at Bao's request to get Dean ready, which in practical terms meant giving him his FBI-approved gear, making sure he knew how to use it, and otherwise talking him through the plan as they saw it. And all at once, it was horribly real: Dean was going, and Cas couldn't stop him, and they had no privacy, no space, in which to talk it through. Not that there was anything to say they hadn't already said, but with Cross skulking in the doorway and Bao ensconced in the good chair, Cas couldn't help feeling resentful.

And so, instead, he held his lover, kissed him deeply, and hoped his touch conveyed what words could not:  _I love you, I need you, come back to me._

When they parted, Dean's voice was husky. 'I'll be fine, Cas. I promise.'

'You'd better be,' Cas whispered.

Impassively, Cross led Dean out, and as the door clicked shut behind them, Cas was left with Bao, an unruffled sentinel he had no reason, but a desperate need, to trust.

'We'll be with him the whole time,' Bao said, into the silence. 'He'll have backup. He'll be –'

'Don't,' said Cas. 'Just, don't.' He sat down in the other chair, and looked her in the eye. 'If you fail him out there, believe me when I say I'll make you regret it.'

Bao smiled thinly. 'I'd like to see you try.'

Cas laughed, startling her. 'And isn't that just villainously typical, that your first thought is physical pain? What, you think I'd start throwing punches? I'm not even sure you'd bleed if I cut you.' He was viciously satisfied by her flinch. 'Let me be clear, then: if this goes badly for Dean – and I'll be the one to judge if it does, not you – then I'll go to the press and tell them exactly what you told me yesterday, about departmental infighting and miscommunication between the FBI and the ATF resulting in the Fellowship siege. I will tell them about Lassiter's abuses, past and present, about how your joint interrogation left me so traumatised, I went home and overdosed, and I will do it with a song in my heart, Agent Bao, because what neither you nor Crowley seem to understand is that  _people don't exist for you to use them_ .'

Bao stiffened. 'If you did that,' she said, voice hard and clipped, 'I'd have to arrest you.'

'If my lover dies,' said Cas, his smile sharp enough to hurt, 'I wouldn't care. But then, that's the problem with trying to leverage damaged, lonely people, isn't it? We don't have much to threaten, and what we want isn't in your power to give. It's why Crowley took Anna, after all.'

'Castiel –'

'Oh, go on.' Cas felt almost feral, now. 'Tell me I've got a family to think about. Tell me why I should prioritise the needs of virtual strangers over the welfare of my lover. Just try it.'

Bao seemed to weigh her words carefully. 'You're awfully loyal to Dean, considering how briefly you've known him. He's been in Monument for, what, all of three months? And as best we can tell, the two of you have only formalised your relationship in the past week or so. Yet you sound almost ready to die for him. Do you really think he feels the same? Do you really think, if push comes to shove, and you hit the big red media button, he's going to welcome the consequences?'

For a moment, Cas was too furious to speak, which Bao seemed to think meant she'd won a point; the corner of her mouth went up, and she inhaled, ready to speak again. Cas, however, got in first.

'Agent Bao, has anyone ever saved your life?'

The question caught her off guard. 'What?'

'You work for the FBI. You've spent time in the field. Has anyone ever saved your life?'

She opened her mouth – to say no, Cas thought, the reflex automatic rather than honest – then stopped, a strange look creeping into her eyes. 'Yes,' she said, slowly. 'Yes, they have.'

'Did it cost them?'

'Cost them?'

'Did they save you at a cost to themselves? Were they hurt? Did they disobey orders? Did they materially disadvantage themselves for your benefit?'

For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer. Then, quietly, in a different tone that Cas suspected was her everyday voice, and not her official one, Bao said, 'Four years into the job, a colleague and I were pinned down in a firefight. I'd been shot, and we needed to move, but I couldn't walk. We'd only been working together a few weeks, didn't really get along – she should have left me there, got herself to safety. Instead, she dragged me to cover. Took a hit in the leg. The bone shattered. Years of physical therapy, and she still walks with a limp. It ended her field career. She's an analyst, now. We work together sometimes, and you know what? We still don't really get along. Just different personalities, I guess. But she's never once held it against me. Never... never acted like it was a big deal, like she didn't cripple herself to pull my ass out of the fire. You don't forget something like that.'

'You'd take a bullet for her?'

'It's the job.'

'And if it wasn't?'

She hesitated, but barely. 'Yes.'

'Well, then.' Cas leaned back. 'You do understand.'

Bao looked intently at Cas, as though she'd never seen him before. 'You said he saved you,' she said, slowly. 'It was the first thing I heard you say, before Crowley rang. You said that Dean saved you in every way that mattered.'

'Because he has,' said Cas. 'And I've saved him. Or I'm trying to, at least. And there's no right timeframe for something like that, except that when they fall, you catch them.'

'Love as salvation?' Bao raised an eyebrow. 'You'll forgive me, but neither of you strikes me as the romantic type.'

Cas snorted. 'What, on the basis of your long and studied observations of both of us? Or are you just succumbing to stereotype?'

'Touché.' Bao smiled and said, 'Well. I suppose I'll have to take your word for it, won't I?'

'Keep Dean safe,' said Cas, 'and you won't have to.'

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

The Lucifer was an old, square, red-brick building jammed between a converted factory and a shady arcade at the disreputable end of Bone Street, which put it as close to Monument's red light district as you could plausibly come without actually being in it. It was two stories tall, the dark glass of its latticed windows made darker still by the bottle-green curtains bunched against them. Combined with the hand-painted sign depicting a fallen angel above the glossy black double-doors, the whole effect was of something repurposed from Victorian London; or at least, of what Dean vaguely imagined Victorian London had looked like. He studied the bar from the safety of the Impala, his borrowed Kevlar tight against his bandages and hot beneath his suit, and briefly fought the urge to be sick.

'This isn't going to end well,' he said. 'You guys know that, right?'

His earpiece prickled with static. 'Try to be optimistic, Mr Winchester,' said Agent Cross. 'Be the success you want to see in the word.'

'We're right here with you,' Bao added.

'Comforting,' Dean said, dryly. Glancing in the rear view mirror, he could just catch a glimpse of the white van containing Bao and Cross; the other three agents – Kirkland, Diaz and Lee – were already in position elsewhere. They'd be the ones to respond when he gave the signal, though Dean wasn't in direct contact with them: once he said the go-word –  _snap_ – it was Bao who'd give the order. There were other code words for different scenarios – if they were badly outgunned; if Dean's cover was blown; if some other variable threatened to turn the day into an even greater clusterfuck than it already was – but not one for a plain abort; there'd be no point. Either Dean could get himself out unassisted, or he couldn't. And on the basis of past experience – 

_I can't do this._

Gripping the steering wheel, Dean thought of Cas, of the promise in that parting kiss, and tried to believe he wasn't about to die. He'd done stupider things, survived worse odds, endured worse injuries, but not in quite this catastrophic a combination – and not, he suddenly realised, when he had anything worth living for. Soldier, cop and criminal, there'd always been a certain fatalism to his bravery: apart from his brother, there'd been no one to care if he lived or died, and even then, Sam would recover, because Sam was emotionally stable. And as for Dean himself – well, what had he ever had that wasn't worth risking? His longest ever relationship had been with Lassiter, and if that didn't sum up everything that was wrong with him, nothing would.

But Cas...

'Dean? You ready?'

Cross's voice cut through his thoughts. Dean smiled, because it was easier than crying.  _At least I had this much happiness._

'Yeah,' he said. 'I'm ready.'

 

*

 

Cas couldn't keep still. He paced his hospital room like a caged cat, alternately staring into space and glaring at Agent Rhys, who'd taken over from Bao a half hour earlier. Rhys was a small, neat woman with vulpine eyes and bony fingers. At first, she'd just looked bored to be there, but gradually, her irritation at his behaviour was starting to show, until she finally snapped, 'Mr Novak! You're making me dizzy.'

'Do I look like I care?' Cas snarled. 'How would you feel, in my position?'

Rhys's expression softened somewhat. 'I understand,' she said, 'but take it from someone who's been on her fair share of stakeouts: impatience will only make it worse. Here.' She leaned across and picked up the TV remote from the bedside table, holding it out to him. 'Just watch something, would you? Try not to think about it.'

Cas just stood there. He didn't want to watch TV; he wanted Dean safe. But he couldn't leave, and pacing was only making his nervous energy worse. Rhys waggled the remote encouragingly. With angry sigh, Cas swiped it out of her grasp.

'There,' said Rhys, sounding pleased with herself. 'Was that so hard?'

'Very,' said Cas, and hit the power button.

The TV was a wall-mounted flatscreen, tucked unobtrusively into the left-hand corner of the room. As Rhys resettled herself, Cas reluctantly pulled up the second chair and sat down, thumbing the volume from silent to barely audible. He'd landed on some daytime soap, in which two plastic and highly coiffed people were arguing dramatically in a hospital room. Snorting at the irony, he changed the channel, and kept on changing: infomercial, golf, sport, sitcom, cooking show. Nothing held his interest, and as he kept on flicking, Rhys said wryly, 'I take it back. I think I preferred the pacing.'

Rolling his eyes, Cas crossed over to a news channel, and was about to move on again when he caught the word  _Fellowship_ . He froze, and suddenly Dean was pushed to the back of his mind, his worry subsumed by a different, older fear. He put the volume up and listened.

'...siege came to an abrupt and bloody end today when the FBI, reportedly acting on new information from a confidential informant, were able to effect a covert entry into the compound. Though the women and children being held by Martin Bruckner, aka Brother Tiberius, were safely rescued, once the FBI presence was discovered, the Fellowship militants responded violently, instigating a close-quarters firefight that ended when Bruckner detonated a powerful explosive device, killing himself, the remainder of his followers, and at least six FBI agents. The Secretary of State has called the incident a 'national tragedy'; meanwhile, the FBI has issued an official statement praising the actions of its operatives in saving the lives of some thirty cult members, many of them children, while condemning Bruckner's actions as –'

Barely conscious of having done so, Cas turned off the TV. He felt removed from his body; removed from everything, even, as though he'd somehow fallen into the gaps between atoms, an unreal man in an unreal space. He waited for the blank voice to berate him, but found only silence, his psyche as raw as if part of himself had been abruptly ripped away.  _All this time, was I really just hearing Brother Tiberius?_ It was an absurd thought, but Cas couldn't shake it: he started laughing, the scraped sound bubbling out of him like chemical overspill, and then he was on his knees, unable to stop. 

Agent Rhys was hovering; he could see her from the corner of his eye. 'Mr Novak? Are you all right?'

Cas kept laughing, tears streaming down his cheeks, and shook his head. He needed Dean,  _needed_ him, but Dean wasn't here, and he had to cope, but the newscaster had said  _confidential informant_ , which meant Castiel was responsible; he'd told Bao everything, and she'd passed it on. 

Which meant that Bao had already known when she showed up – she'd come into his hospital room and lied barefaced, like Crowley had lied to Anna, by poisonous omission – because she needed them focussed on something else; and now he was alone, and Dean was in danger, and –

Agent Rhys touched his back.

It was like she'd set him on fire. In a single, frenzied moment, Cas felt every cut, every blow, that Brother Tiberius had ever landed on him, belt and blade and wire and chain; he jerked upright, a swallowed scream in his throat, and struck out in wild, blind panic. His elbow connected with Rhys's face, hard; she yelped and fell, and Cas staggered forwards, arms raised over his head to ward off the inevitable retaliation – but nothing happened. He stood there, cowering, until he came back to himself, and remembered where he was. He lowered his arms and turned. Agent Rhys was sprawled against the chair, blood streaming from her nose; she was staring at him like he'd gone mad.

'I'm – I'm sorry,' Cas stammered. He didn't know when he'd stopped laughing, but he sure as hell wasn't now. 'My back, I don't – you touched me – I can't –'

Rhys's eyes widened slightly. 'Oh,' she said, and all at once, Cas knew she'd seen his scars in the interview room, just like Bao had. 'I didn't think.' She braced her arms on the chair and heaved herself up. 'Can you, uh, grab me some tissues?'

'Sure,' said Cas, pathetically grateful for something to do, and ducked into the bathroom.

Where he threw up, suddenly and violently, into the sink. Bile burned his throat; he rinsed his mouth out, coughing and gagging, and then his legs refused to work: he slid to the floor, his back to the cold, hard tiles, and tried to feel something – anything – that made sense.

That was how Agent Rhys found him. She didn't look great herself, but that only made Cas feel worse: he was the one who'd bloodied her nose and blacked her eye. He neither wanted nor deserved her pity, and resented her for offering it.

Grabbing a handful of toilet paper, she crouched down opposite him, absently wiping the blood from her face.

'I thought you knew about the raid,' she said, softly, 'or I wouldn't have suggested putting the TV on. I'm sorry.'

'Yeah,' said Cas. 'I bet you are.'

'Mr Novak –'

'Just fuck off, would you?'

'What?'

'I mean, go get a coffee or something. Clean yourself up. Whatever. Just leave me alone.'

Carefully, Rhys said, 'I really don't think I should do that. You need help.'

'And you're not it,' he shot back. And then, more quietly, 'Agent Rhys, please. It's nothing personal. But right now, there's exactly one person I want to see, and you're not him. So just... just give me ten minutes, OK?'

Rhys sighed. 'All right,' she said, straightening. 'Ten minutes.'

Cas watched her go, listening until even her footsteps faded. He wanted Dean, and for a moment, the urge to just leave the hospital, jump in a cab and go straight to the Lucifer was almost overpowering. But even upset, Cas was still sane enough to know that getting in the way of an FBI operation – let alone putting himself within easy reach of Ruby Blue – was an immensely stupid idea. He could get someone killed. He could get  _Dean_ killed, and the thought was so horrific, he almost stopped breathing.

He crawled into the shower, turned on the taps, and sat under the spray. It was something to feel, at least, and if the falling water didn't quite hide his tears, it somehow made them easier to bear.

 

*

 

The Lucifer's back entrance was on the side that abutted the arcade, up a narrow, dim path too short to truly count as an alley, but which Dean couldn't really think of as anything else. The second he passed out of Bao and Cross's sight, he shivered.  _Now I really am on my own_ . The door here was scuffed and closed, and when Dean knocked – he checked his watch; it was 3:59pm, and Crowley had said to come at four – it was several seconds before someone answered. The door edged open a crack, revealing an almost skeletally thin man in a black suit, his skin so white and his eyes so sunken as to make his face cadaverous. 

'Yes?' he said, arching an eyebrow.

Dean gulped. 'I'm, uh, here for Dorothy.'

'Of course you are,' said the man, and pulled the door open. 'Right this way.'

The second he was inside, Dean felt his heart sink. He'd been hoping the Lucifer had a simple layout, the kind of big rooms and wide halls that made it easy for backup to reach you quickly. Instead, the place was a warren: narrow, twisting corridors, alcove-like rooms, low lighting and obstacles everywhere. As the thin man lead him through to a distant room, Dean resisted the urge to pat the Glock in its holster.

'You're early,' the thin man said. 'Please, wait here. The others will be with you shortly.'

He exited and shut the door, leaving Dean alone in what appeared to be a private bar. The whole room had a bordello feel to it: wood panelling, red velvet drapes on windowless walls, leather armchairs, round tables. The bar itself was well-stocked and untended, and it took a surprising amount of self-restraint not to walk up and fix himself a drink. Instead, he stood against the wall, hands clasped in front of him like he was stuck in church, and waited.

He wasn't waiting long. Before a minute had passed, the thin man returned and ushered in another visitor: Crowley.

Dean felt his hackles raise. The loan shark glanced around the room, then smiled at Dean, as though he were pleasantly surprised to see him.

'Hello, Dean.'

'Crowley.' Dean clenched his fists. 'Well, isn't this fun.'

'Don't worry, darling. The others will be here soon enough. I asked you to come a little early – after all, you're meant to be Teddy's man, and of course, he wants a quiet word before it's all official.'

'So tell me, then,' said Dean, 'if I'm here as Teddy's security, who's here as yours?'

'No one,' said Crowley. 'Don't need it. Or are you suggesting, Dean Winchester, that you pose a danger to me?'

'Don't tempt me. Not today.'

Crowley wiggled his fingers mockingly. 'Ooh, I'm all aquiver!'

Dean might have replied, but just then, the thin man returned, escorting an unremarkable middle-aged man whom Crowley greeted by name: Teddy Brimmond.

Resentment stabbed through Dean. This was the man on whose ostensible behalf his life was being turned inside out; hell, if he was in business with Crowley and Ruby Blue, the world would probably be better off without him. But that wasn't his call any more, and so he stood by, teeth clenched, and let Crowley introduce them.

Teddy Brimmond was short, with thinning, ginger hair, a happy face, and pale blue eyes as sharp as razor wire. 'A pleasure to meet you, Dean,' he said, holding out a hand. His voice had a slight southern lilt, and he was wearing a red satin waistcoat under his suit jacket. 'Crowley's told me only good things about you.'

'Crowley's too kind,' said Dean. They shook hands, and for all that Teddy looked like an actuary, his palms were callused from hard work.

'So,' said Teddy. 'Let me walk you through how this will work.'

And then, to Dean's silent embarrassment, Teddy Brimmond spent the next twenty minutes explaining what he expected from his head of security; why, ordinarily, he'd have promoted someone from within his own ranks, except that he didn't know who to trust after 'that awful business with Jameson'; how he was mistrustful of Ruby's reasons for moving the meeting ahead, but couldn't risk not coming; and on, and on, and on. Dean just stood there, smiling and nodding, and trying to decide who he hated more, himself or Crowley. Whatever lies had been told to Teddy Brimmond, he was clearly operating under the assumption that Dean would be coming to work for him on a permanent basis, and as such, he was rather more forthcoming with details about his own criminal operation than Dean had expected. He wondered what Cross and Bao were making of it all; Teddy was incriminating himself so thoroughly that, assuming he survived, the FBI would have no difficulty putting him away.

With that revelation, the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stood up.  _This isn't right._ No criminal boss at Teddy's level could possibly be so trusting, so  _stupid_ , as to lay out the inner workings of their organisation at the drop of a hat for someone they'd just met, regardless of who'd vouched for them. Being friends with Crowley didn't justify this level of blind faith in a stranger: sure, he had no reason to suspect the FBI were listening in, but even if he did think Dean was about to join him on a permanent basis, he still should've held back, tested him a little. He glanced at Crowley, who'd helped himself to the bar, but the loan shark didn't look up. A bad feeling churned through Dean's stomach. Ruby wanted Teddy dead, and Crowley wanted him saved. It was such a compelling polarity that Dean had never stopped to wonder what  _Teddy_ wanted in all of this, beyond getting out alive. He'd discounted the very person the whole affair hinged on, and just at that moment, he wanted to kick himself, because Teddy Brimmond – this short, avuncular, southerner with a name like a children's toy and the dress sense of an English professor – had clearly built a career on being professionally underestimated; and if Dean had fallen into that particular trap, then what was to say that Crowley hadn't, either? Or Ruby?

Blessedly, Teddy chose that moment to stop talking, distracted by the prospect of whatever it was that Crowley was mixing up. He clapped Dean on the shoulder – Dean bit his lip, wincing at the pain in his cuts – and wandered over to Crowley, who presented him with something arcane and blue in a martini glass.

'Dean!' said Crowley. 'Join us, won't you?'

Biting back the urge to swear, Dean made himself look at Teddy and said, 'Boss?'

Teddy gave an approving laugh. 'Now, that's the kind of attitude I'm looking for! Maybe later, Dean – I suspect whatever Crowley's cooked up might be strong enough to put you out of commission.'

Dean nodded, secretly grateful; given the state of his injuries, it was a truer assessment than Teddy could possibly know. The hospital staff had brought him painkillers along with lunch, and for a while, they'd helped, but he hadn't taken a second dose for fear of dulling his reflexes, and now he was aching. Worse still, between the closed-in room and his many uncomfortable layers, he was sweating like a sinner, the greasy salt stinging his cuts into wakefulness. God, and he was feeling faint, too, but hired muscle didn't sit unless the boss requested it; so instead, he put his back to the wall, leaning unobtrusively and hoping like hell the others would show up soon.

Which, gradually, they did, each new guest escorted by the same thin man who'd let Dean in: a handful of well-dressed people he didn't recognise, some accompanied by men in suits who were clearly their security detail, the rest unescorted. Crowley greeted them all, handing out drinks like he was being paid for it, and Teddy waved Dean over and showed him off like a prize horse, and all the while Dean's internal warning systems were screaming alarm, because something was wrong, something was powerfully wrong, and until Ruby made her appearance, he couldn't do a single thing about it.

And then, like a bad dream made manifest, Meg entered.

She was alone, wearing a sleek blue dress that hugged her curves, and if Dean had never seen her kneeling in his blood, laughing as she wound a strip of his skin around her little finger –  _See, Dean? I've got you right where I want you_ – he could almost have mistaken her for beautiful. Instead, the sight of her chilled him; he wanted to run and hide. Not even Lassiter had scared him this badly – but then, he'd been so deep in denial about what Lassiter was, what he'd done, that he'd scarcely been able to process it, whereas Meg had openly tortured him. And now – 

'Welcome, everyone!'

Dean did a double-take. He'd scanned the room on entry, and had thought there was only a single way in; yet there was Ruby, stepping out from a door concealed by one of the red curtains, smiling like she owned the place. His heart sped up.

'Oh, snap,' he murmured, and in his ear, he heard Bao say, 'We're on it.'

'So glad you could all make it,' Ruby was saying. 'My apologies for the sudden change, but, well, you know how life is. Just one thing after another.'

Silence in Dean's earpiece. He had to stand still, to act like the FBI wasn't about to burst in and arrest everyone, to not look expectantly at the door, and it was one of the hardest things he'd ever done, because the only alternative was watching as Meg crossed the room and came to stand by Ruby's side, smiling out at the crowd – at  _him_ – like a shark in a fish tank.

'As it happens,' Ruby continued, 'the reason we're gathered here at all is also the reason for the altered schedule. Someone in this room has been talking to the FBI –' concerned murmuring, '– and that puts all of us at risk.'

Dean could feel the sweat trickling down his back.  _What's taking so long?_ Sure, Bao and Cross had to come from the van, but Diaz, Lee and Kirkland had already been inside the Lucifer. They should've been here by now, and the fact that they weren't was more than a little worrying. 

Someone in the crowd snorted – a heavyset man in a navy suit. 'Says who, Ruby Blue? You?' He grinned, clearly pleased by the rhyme. 'Now, I'm curious enough to come along for the party, but you're new around here, and I'm struggling to see why I – why any of us – should just take your word for it. Now Alastair, he was reliable.'

Ruby smiled, her red eye bright as blood. 'Alastair is dead, Maurice. You'd do well to remember it.'

'Exactly,' said Maurice. He stepped forwards, arms crossed, and it didn't escape Dean's notice that he was one of the few guests who'd come without a bodyguard. 'And how did that happen, again?'

'Why, Maurice? Are you feeling threatened?'

Meg chuckled, and Maurice, who was evidently the sort of man who despised female laughter at his expense, flushed dark red. 'Not threatened,' he ground out. 'Just cautious. What proof is there that the FBI's taken an active interest in any of us?'

'Well, for one thing,' came a chilling drawl, 'she invited me.'

Even Ruby startled, a look of pure shock on her face. The whole room fell silent, all eyes fixed on the tall man emerging from the same door Ruby had used. His dark hair was dishevelled, his white shirt spattered with fresh blood, and the gun in his hand was pointed squarely at Ruby Blue.

Dean's blood ran cold.

It was Lassiter.

Ruby just stared at him, aghast. 'What the hell are you doing?' she yelled. 'We had a  _deal_ ! We –'

The gunshot was like thunder. Ruby shuddered, arms jerking like a marionette's, and then the back of her head blew out, red blood on red curtains. Meg screamed, but the sound turned into a hideous gargle as Lassiter spun and shot her, too; and then people were running, stampeding for the doors – one bodyguard pulled his own weapon, but not fast enough; Lassiter's bullet took him through the throat, and he dropped like a stone – and all the while, Lassiter was advancing on Dean, a feral smile fixed on his face.

Too late, Dean reached for his Glock; he'd barely gripped it before Lassiter shook his head, his own gun aimed at Dean's head.

'Drop it,' he said, and Dean obeyed, helpless to do otherwise.

Bao's voice crackled in his ear. 'Dean, something's happened – I can't get a response from the others, and the van's been tampered with. We're locked in. Can you report?'

'Lassiter,' he said, numbly. It was all he could say. Ruby and Meg were dead; Crowley was nowhere to be seen, and everyone else had fled, leaving Dean alone with the last man on Earth he wanted to see.

'Loose the earpiece,' Lassiter said. And then, more loudly, 'Sorry, Bao, but I don't need an audience.'

Dread coiling through him like tentacles, Dean complied. The last thing he heard was Bao swearing; he tossed the earpiece onto the ground, and Lassiter stomped on it, smiling all the while.

'What the hell are you doing?' Dean whispered.

If anything, the smile widened. 'Oh, Dean. You're even stupider than she was. After everything you've done to me, you really thought you could ruin my life a second time and just walk away? You really thought I'd stand for it?'

'I didn't ruin your life, Danny,' he made himself say. 'You did that all yourself.'

' _Bullshit_ ,' Lassiter hissed. 'You  _knew_ that Kayburn would be there, you  _knew_ –'

'Of course I knew!' He was trembling, covered in cold sweat, and oh, god, he wasn't strong enough, not for this, not now, but Lassiter had a gun on him, and if he was dead no matter what, then at least he could die honest. 'How else could I get away from you? The things you were doing, you wouldn't listen – I told you no, I told you to stop, but you wouldn't  _listen_ –'

'You wanted it,' Lassiter sneered. 'You fucking liar, you loved every dirty second of it.'

'No, I didn't!' Dean's voice broke. 'It was  _rape_ , Danny! You raped me, and you made me think it was all my fault, and you can go ahead and shoot me, but that won't make it any less true.'

Lassiter laughed, an ugly sound, and came closer still. 'That night in Sacramento, you should've done us both a favour and jumped off a _real_ bridge. It would've made things easier.'

Something in Dean snapped, and in the second before he launched himself at Lassiter, he saw a flash of triumph in the other man's eyes. He grabbed Lassiter's wrist, slamming it down against a nearby table, trying to make him drop the gun – and he did, but not before it went off. Pain shot through Dean's abdomen, brutal enough that he almost blacked out. He didn't know if he'd been shot or punched; only that something had kicked the Kevlar hard up against his injured skin, and then they were fighting in earnest, a squalid flurry of blows that seemed to reopen every single cut. Too late, Dean realised that he'd been goaded into attacking, that this was what Lassiter wanted; he was no match for him, and the other man knew it.

Viciously, Lassiter swept Dean's legs out from under him. He fell hard, the breath blown from his lungs as Lassiter straddled and pinned him, pressing his forearm hard to Dean's throat. Dean thrashed and kicked, pawing uselessly at Lassiter's arms, trying to dislodge him as the world went dark, but the other man was immovable. Dean couldn't breathe; there were spots in front of his eyes, and past them, all he could see was Lassiter, laughing as he pressed harder and harder, as Dean died under him –

A thundercrack shot. A burst of blood, the red warmth washing his face like rain. Lassiter fell sideways with a hole in his head, and as the pressure of his arm let up, Dean coughed and choked and gasped for air, which was all that kept him from screaming.

Crowley stood over him, gun in hand, a satisfied smile on his face.

'There,' he said, smugly. 'You see? I told you my owing a favour would come in handy.'

Dean could barely speak. He opened his mouth, but only air came out. Crowley, however, sighed as though he'd delivered a lengthy reprimand.

'Your friend, of course. You're such an ungrateful sod, but I'll see her safe in lieu of your hazard pay.' Still holding the gun, he pulled out his phone and dialled, rolling his eyes in comic impatience at the length of time it took the other person to answer. 'Marco! It's me. There's been a change of plan – unexpected, but very much to our advantage. Let Miss Milton go, with my blessings for a long and prosperous life. Unharmed, yes. Good man.' He hung up, raising an eyebrow at Dean. 'Satisfied?'

From elsewhere in the Lucifer came the distant sound of shouting. Crowley sighed. 'And that's my cue. A pleasure doing business with you, as always.'

And before Dean could answer, Crowley was gone, vanishing through Ruby's hidden exit a good ten seconds before the main door burst open, revealing a harassed-looking Cross and a vividly furious Bao, both of whom stopped, slack-jawed, at the sight that met their eyes.

'Goddamit!' Cross swore. He almost sounded impressed.

Bao crouched by Dean's side. 'Is there another way out? What happened? Dean?'

He couldn't answer; his throat was too bruised. All the same, he struggled to sit up – and then a new pain knifed through his stomach, sharp and hot and frightening, as Bao tried to take his weight.

'Oh,' she said, stupidly. She pulled her hands away, and Dean had just enough time to see her palms were slick with blood –  _his_ blood, not Lassiter's – and think,  _well, shit,_ before he fell back into darkness.

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

Cas was numb.

He'd still been in the shower, ignoring Rhys's efforts to coax him out, when Bao had called about Dean. He hadn't been able to hear her side of the conversation, but just the look on Rhys's face was enough to tell him something was seriously wrong. He grabbed the phone from her, demanding to know what had happened, but dropped it sometime between Bao saying that Dean had been shot and her wholly unsatisfactory explanation as to how it happened. Rhys had listened to the rest, and afterwards, had done her best to make him understand the details. The bullet, she said, had hit just beneath the Kevlar, taking a piece of bandage with it, and that meant Dean's surgery carried an extra risk: if some of the bandage was left behind, the wound could end up fatally infected, and that was before you factored in the chance of organ damage.

Cas had been sick again after that; and again, and again, until he was beyond empty. Then, wet and shivering, he'd gotten up – and brushed his teeth, because Agent Rhys had insisted – and gone to wait for Dean. He'd arrived just in time to see his lover wheeled into surgery, and after that, there was a blank space in his memories. The next thing he knew, he was sitting on a hard plastic chair, a thick towel wrapped around his shoulders as Agent Rhys handed him a cup of hot chocolate, yelling over her shoulder for someone to 'fucking  _fix_ it, then!', though what exactly needed fixing, Cas didn't know and doubtless never would. 

He didn't drink the hot chocolate. It went cold in his hands, and when Agent Cross, with maddening arrogance, arrived to try and congratulate him on Dean's service to his country, Cas threw the lot in his face. Cross shouted at him for that, but when Cas didn't respond, he went away again, and as Rhys sopped up the mess with a borrowed cloth, she murmured, 'The guy's a jackass.'

That had been hours ago. His clothes were still damp, and even with the towel, he felt frozen in place; his thoughts were sluggish, looping endlessly back on themselves, and when a doctor finally approached and said his name, it took Cas a good three seconds to realise that meant him. He blinked up at the surgeon, taking in her tentative smile, and for the first time since Bao had called, he let himself hope.

'We got it all,' the surgeon said. 'It wasn't clean or quick, and he'll take a while to heal, but the internal damage was minimal – no organs nicked, which means he's out of immediate danger. We'll monitor him in intensive care for at least the next twenty-four hours, just to be safe, but barring complications, he should be fine.'

Cas shook with relief. 'Can I see him?'

She frowned. 'Are you family? Because intensive care is –'

'Just get him access,' said Agent Rhys, in the sort of voice that suggested she could either end a war, or start one. ' _Now_ .' 

The surgeon hesitated. 'Sure,' she finally said, and left.

Into the silence, Cas said, 'Thank you.'

'Don't mention it,' said Rhys. 'When my girlfriend had her appendix out last year, the staff were unbearable about letting me visit. I wasn't on her insurance.'

'Oh,' said Cas. And with that, a sudden thought occurred to him. 'Anna! Oh god, Anna, is she OK, too? I didn't ask, I should have asked, but I didn't –'

'She's fine,' Rhys said, gently. 'Apparently, Crowley just let her go. Bao's interviewing her now.'

'Oh,' he said again. 'Good.'

And then he burst into tears.

Awkwardly, Rhys patted his shoulder – though not, crucially, his back – and after a minute, Cas managed to get himself under control.

'Can you get Anna in to see him, too?' he asked, wiping his eyes. 'To see us, I mean.'

'I'll do my best,' said Rhys. 'Come on. Let's go.' She helped him up, clicking her tongue at how cold he was. 'I'll ask someone to check the lost and found for some dry clothes. You can't sit like this forever, not in a hospital; you'll catch swine flu or something, and then I'll be out on my ear.'

Cas managed a feeble laugh. 'I promise not to catch swine flu.'

'Oh, sure, you say that  _now_ .' 

They rounded a corner – Cas didn't know where he was going, and had to trust that Rhys did – and kept walking. Nothing felt real: he couldn't believe Dean was alive and safe, but the idea that he might really be dead, or in danger of dying, was equally incomprehensible. Until Cas saw the truth for himself, his lover was effectively stuck in some quantum state between life and death, a literal Schrodinger's cat. Against all reason, he found the comparison comforting.  _Love is a wave and a particle,_ he thought.  _Like light. You can either know where it's going or what it means now, but not both at once. You couldn't contain it, otherwise._

Or maybe that was just so much feverish bullshit; his teeth were chattering, and he had an unpleasant premonition that he'd made himself sick (though probably not with swine flu). But then they entered intensive care, and every other thought went out of his head, because there was Dean, his Dean, alive. Cas barely registered the drip in his arm, the winedark bruising around his throat, the oxygen mask; what mattered was the rise and fall of his chest, the beat of his heart. 

Cas sat down beside him, and held his hand, and everything else in the world fell away.

'Come back to me,' he whispered. 'You made it this far. Please, love. Just a little bit further.'

 

*

 

Anna was having a very strange day.

After Crowley had left, she'd steadied her nerves and poked her head out into the hotel corridor, wanting to check that she really was guarded – and, of course, she was. The men on her door were called Marco and Vin, and out of some bizarre combination of awkwardness, panic and a deeply ingrained sense of hospitality – you didn't just leave people standing in hallways – she'd ended up inviting them in to watch TV with her, on the specious justification that, if they were going to be there anyway, they might as well be comfortable; and besides, she preferred having them where she could see them. Which is how she'd come to end up watching  _Grease_ – and not just watching, but singing along to the musical numbers – with a pair of career criminals, one of whom had a Chinese dragon tattooed on his face, and the other of whom had casually confessed to once having strangled a man with a shoelace. They'd even cracked open the minibar, and once the movie was over, Marco had taught her to cut cards. As abduction experiences went, it had been oddly pleasant.

And then, out of nowhere, Crowley had called and asked Marco to let her go. No explanations, no word on Dean or Ruby – nothing. She'd simply been escorted out of the building, which turned out to be in a part of Monument she didn't recognise, and set free like an undersized trout in a catch-and-release stream. Sheepishly, Vin had returned her mobile, and that had been that: the two men had gone back inside, presumably to do whatever it was that criminals did when they weren't guarding kidnapped baristas, and Anna had been left, blinking and dumbstruck, in the early evening light. After a minute of aimless walking, she'd finally thought to turn on her phone – though of course, she didn't call a cab, because life-or-death emergencies aside, she couldn't afford one. Instead, she rang Dean, biting her lip as the call went through – and then a woman had answered. Her name was Special Agent Bao, and Anna was to stay right where she was; an FBI detail would come and collect her shortly. Anna tried to ask about Dean, but beyond confirming that he was alive, Special Agent Bao had refused to give any details.

Twenty minutes later, she was picked up off the street by taciturn pair of FBI agents who, she felt sure, most certainly wouldn't have left their post to watch _Grease_ with her, though they both looked more than capable of committing murder by shoelace. They drove her, not to the FBI field office, but to a police station, where she was given a bottle of water and left in an interview room. This was confusing to say the least, but just as impatience threatened to get the better of her, Special Agent Bao appeared and asked her what had happened. 

And Anna had answered, narrating the day's events as sensibly as she knew how, which wasn't very; but then, the day itself was absurd, so how was that her fault? Bao listened quietly, then asked a different set of questions: how and when had she first met Dean? What about Crowley? What, if anything, had she known about Ruby Blue? Though Anna didn't remember who'd given her the bottle of water, she was grateful to them; her throat was aching after half an hour, and even with something to drink, she could feel her voice start to weaken.

By the time she was done, she'd told Bao everything she wanted to know, and as such felt entitled to a few answers of her own – such as, for instance, where was Dean? And what the hell had happened, anyway?

Bao hesitated, sat back, and sighed. 'Here's what we think we know,' she said. 'At some point yesterday, Ruby Blue made contact with Special Agent Lassiter, offering him the chance to publicly discredit Dean in exchange for arresting her competitors; provided, of course, he let her go. The problem was, the Bureau had already suspended Lassiter – he couldn't hold up his end of the bargain. Even so, he still asked his immediate superior for the necessary resources to act on what he referred to as a 'confidential tip' about Dean's involvement in a criminal conspiracy, and while no such resources were granted, neither did his superior report his request. If he had done, things might have gone very differently today.'

Bao paused. There were dark circles under her eyes, and as angry as Anna was at the FBI over Lassiter, it was hard to extend that rage to Bao, who looked in every respect like a woman struggling to make the best of an incredibly bad situation.

'What did happen, then?' Anna prompted.

'Revenge, we think.' Bao rubbed her face. 'Lassiter knew he was going to lose his job, and if Dean had charged him with sexual assault, he'd likely have gone to prison. He couldn't back out of the deal with Ruby, and so he seemingly decided his best and only option was a strong offence. I don't think he was acting alone, either. I have no proof of this as yet –' and here her eyes flashed, which Anna took to mean  _but I know what the fuck I'm talking about_ , '– but I suspect he went to one of Ruby's competitors, most likely Teddy Brimmond, and enlisted his help to take Ruby down. Certainly, he didn't kill three good agents, then seal myself and Agent Cross in the surveillance van on a whim, unassisted, and with no premeditation. He had help, and given who ended up dead today, coupled with the fact that Crowley let you go, I can't think who else might have offered it. Regardless –' she made a cutting gesture, '– the practical upshot was, we were betrayed, and badly. Dean called for backup right on schedule, but they – we – were either dead or disabled, and by the time we were able to get to him, it was too late. Besides our agents, we found four bodies: Ruby Blue, Meg, an unknown man we suspect was hired muscle, and Lassiter himself.'

Anna's pulse was racing. 'And Dean?'

'Shot in the lower abdomen, and rather badly choked. He's in surgery now.' She grimaced. 'Lassiter was dead beside him, shot through the back of the head. Again, I  _suspect_ – but cannot prove – that Crowley was responsible. By which I mean,' she added, responding to Anna's shock, 'that Lassiter shot and choked Dean, and then was killed by Crowley.'

Anna exhaled sharply. 'Oh. That makes more sense, I guess.'

Bao raised an eyebrow. 'Inasmuch as any of this does, you mean?'

'You said it.' She drank the last of her water, watching as Bao laced her fingers together. 'Why are you even telling me this? I mean, don't think I'm not grateful, but I was more or less expecting you to cut me out of the loop.'

Bao's lips quirked. 'Two reasons,' she said. 'One, because someone will have to update Castiel on the situation, and as he was rather explicit about what I could expect from him if Dean was hurt, I think he's better off hearing it from someone he trusts – though I will, of course, have to face him eventually. And two –' she smiled, '– because you strike me as being a singularly practical and level-headed person, which is not a compliment I'd currently pay to either of your friends.'

Anna laughed despite herself. 'I'm flattered, really. But it's not exactly a high bar, is it?'

'Point taken.' Bao toyed with her pen a moment, as though she were debating with herself. Then, in a quieter, more hesitant tone than she'd used before, she added, 'Once they knew you'd been taken, Castiel wanted to involve the police in your rescue, but Dean suggested – forcefully, I might add – that young black women were seldom a high priority for local law enforcement, and that you deserved better from both of them. Castiel agreed.' She met Anna's gaze. 'They might not be practical, but they're not stupid; not about the important stuff, at least. And I thought... I thought you might like to know.'

Anna's mouth hung open a little. 'Are you, ah... I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but – are you suggesting I ought to give them both cookies for being aware of systematic racism? Because, if so –'

'I am suggesting,' Bao said, 'that in my experience, systematic racism tends to be most evident in what people say about you behind your back, regardless of how they treat you in person. Information is valuable, Ms Milton. I merely thought to share it.'

'Oh,' said Anna, blushing slightly. 'Well then. Thanks, I guess.'

'Don't mention it.' Bao stood, and just like that, the moment ended. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I have vast oceans of paperwork to navigate, and you, I suspect, have a hospital visit to pay. Or would you rather return home first?'

Anna shook her head. 'Hospital, thanks.' She could only imagine how Cas was taking news of Dean's injuries, and the thought of him sitting a solo vigil over his boyfriend was downright depressing.

'I'll have someone drive you over, then.' Bao held out a hand. 'It's been a pleasure, Ms Milton.'

They shook hands. 'I guess it has,' says Anna. 'But if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not do it again.'

Bao's laugh was throaty and genuine. 'Me neither.'

 

*

 

He was wrapped in white silence, but like all silences, it had a peculiar sound that was all its own, the aural equivalent of sunlight flashing over closed eyes, intangibly felt and bodily sensed. This silence was like chewing a ball of aluminium foil, a metal-tang-fizz that both disturbed and satisfied. He was small within it, his body reduced to pinpoint limbs and aching space, and all around – above, below, between his ribs – was endless, restless white. It was unsettling, not peaceful at all, as though he were trapped within an alien heart that beat out of synch with his own. Emerging from nowhere, silver-black spots disfigured the white, like blossoming mould on bathroom tiles; he waxed and waned around his bones, and suddenly he was falling backwards, tumbling into awareness of a body that hurt, and breathed, and bled, but which was too heavy to move.

Dean fluttered his eyelids, unable to open them fully. His fingers and toes twitched, which was dimly reassuring, but he was muzzy, and weak, and in the moment, it was easier just to lie back and listen.

'Cas, it's been hours. Your lips are blue. Please, it'll take five minutes – go have a hot shower, put some dry things on, and then come back. I promise, Dean's not going anywhere.'

'He didn't leave me. I'm not leaving him.'

'If he were awake, he'd tell you to change.'

'If he were awake, there wouldn't be a problem.'

'Cas –'

'Anna, please. You don't understand. It's a quantum thing.'

'A what?'

'He's superpositioned. It's the uncertainty principle, all right? If I'm not here, if I can't see him, then he's dead and alive, not stable, not –'

'You're delirious.'

'I'm fine. Stop hovering and listen, would you? He's Schrodinger's cat.' A violent sneeze. 'Not a real cat, though. He doesn't have nine lives. It's why I have to watch – hey!'

'You're burning up. I swear to god, Cas, if you don't go and get changed right now, I'll have one of the nurses sedate you.'

'The nurses don't answer to you.'

'They will if I bribe them with pizza.'

'Liar. You have no pizza.'

Dean felt a pang of worry. Cas was sick, upset about something. He had to let him know it was OK, had to tell him to calm down, take care of himself. He blinked, surprised by how foggy his vision was, and realised there was something stuck to his face. Irritated, he tried to lift a hand and swipe it away.

'Dean?' Cas's voice, tense and urgent. 'Anna, he moved, I saw him move!'

'Are you sure – oh!'

The world was an underwater blur, all silver-white and grey, but Dean could still see Cas: his blue eyes unmistakeable, like stolen stars, or sapphires. He focussed on them, gulping against the pain in his body, and lifted a hand to his lover's cheek.

'Hey, Cas,' he croaked. The words were barely audible – his throat hurt like he'd swallowed a billiard ball – and there was a stupid plastic mask on his face. Grunting with the effort, he reached up with his other hand and ripped it away, then lay back, absurdly satisfied by such a small accomplishment.

'Hey, Dean.' Tenderly, Cas stroked his hand and brought it to his lips, kissing each knuckle one by one. His eyes were red-rimmed, his dark hair messy; he was wearing a towel around his shoulders, and his hands, usually so warm, were cool to the touch. Dimly, Dean remembered what he'd overheard, and forced himself to speak.

'You're cold, Cas. Be warm. Promise?'

Cas made a funny noise, like someone had pinched him. 'I promise,' he whispered.

'Told you so,' said Anna. She was standing behind him, and when Dean flicked his gaze to her, he realised she was crying, smiling as she wiped her eyes. 'You big dork, Dean,' she said, and to his utter surprise, she bent down and dropped a kiss on his forehead. 'You had us worried.'

Remembering Crowley, Dean grabbed her hand. 'You OK?'

Anna laughed. 'Am  _I_ OK? You're the one in hospital, doofus.' 

And with that, it all came flooding back to him: the Lucifer, Bao, his fight with Lassiter. He gasped, and nearby, a machine started beeping. Still gripping Anna's hand, he looked at Cas and asked, 'Fellowship?'

Cas smiled shakily. 'Done. It's over. Brother Tiberius is dead.'

'Good.' Suddenly dizzy, he let go of Anna and shut his eyes. 'Cas?'

'Yeah?'

'Love you.'

Warm lips brushed his own. 'I love you, too.'

Safe and smiling, Dean drifted back to sleep.

 

 


	27. Chapter 27

Anna's mother had a saying:  _life is the bits you don't remember._ Busy yourself with being alive, and all that living bled together, memories bright as lightning strikes in a vast and ever-changing sky. It was just the sort of thing you'd expect a professional photographer to say at a wedding shoot, and as that's exactly what Anna's mother did for a living, she tended to take her aphorisms with a grain of salt. But during Dean's stay in hospital, she found herself thinking that maybe, there was some truth to it after all, because she was busier than she'd been in months, and damned if she could remember where the time went, except that each new minute found her with something to do, and even when she was worn out and exasperated, it didn't matter: she was alive – her friends were alive – and that made everything beautiful. 

Which isn't to say that everything ran smoothly. For instance, and despite his early fever, it was three whole days before she could coax Castiel into going home from hospital for a proper sleep; he didn't want to leave Dean alone, and even though Dean had said it was fine – was, in fact, increasingly concerned for Cas's well-being – he stubbornly held his ground. When Anna finally did manage to get him into Marie's cab, he spent the entire trip alternately insisting that he wasn't tired and demanding they go back. Anna ignored him, dragging him up to his flat and all but shoving him into his room.

'Just a quick nap, then,' he mumbled, and promptly fell asleep in his clothes for thirty-six hours. Anna checked on him periodically, snapping photos to send to Dean, who responded with grateful text messages.

The rest of the time, when she wasn't at the hospital or forcing Cas to look after himself, she was running Impala Records and supervising her friend Charlie's management of Books of a Feather, which essentially meant poking her head next door every once in a while and asking if she wanted a coffee. (Charlie usually did.) It was busy, and sociable, and occasionally stressful – her manager at Well Bread had rescheduled her shifts for the week, but made it clear that, if she wanted to keep the job, she needed to come back soon – but also worthwhile. Dean had insisted on paying her a higher hourly rate than she'd ever earned before, and even though she felt slightly guilty about it – the store clearly wasn't making that much money – she also thought she deserved it.

Charlie, on the other hand, was increasingly confused by the bookshop's finances.

'I can't see how he's making a profit,' she said. Cas had been asleep for fifteen hours at that point, and Anna wouldn't have woken him for anything less than a million dollars. 'Seriously. I've looked over the accounts – I've had to, you know, to figure out pricing and everything – and it's just not possible.'

Anna snorted. 'Oh, come on. This place has been here for how many years? Four? Five? If he wasn't making a profit, he'd have gone bankrupt by now.'

'Look for yourself,' said Charlie, pushing over the records, and although maths had never been Anna's strongest suit, even she could see the problem. Where Impala Records seemed to make just enough to squeak by, even factoring in her wages, the bookshop was a financial black hole. It didn't matter that Cas owned the building outright: he sold so few books for so little, she couldn't understand how he had money enough for basic necessities, let alone council rates and whatever pricey insurance had snared him a private room at the hospital.

Unless, of course, he was independently wealthy – but if Cas had money, then where did it come from? It wasn't like he had a rich family to fall back in: from what she'd been told, his mother had ended up with the Fellowship precisely because she was poor and vulnerable, and whoever Cas's father had been, it was too fairy-tale ridiculous to imagine him as a faceless benefactor. And anyway, if Cas  _was_ well-off, then why bother running the bookshop in the first place? Whatever funds he had, they either had to be substantial or, at the very least, self-replenishing, given the amount he must be losing on the store each year. Besides which, if there was one thing Anna knew about people with money, it was that they tended to waste it on shiny, useless gadgets, not secondhand bookshops – that is, when they wasted it all. It didn't make sense, and the more she talked it over with Charlie, the more it bugged her. 

_Not_ , her thoughts added hastily,  _that it's any of my business._ Except that, inasmuch as Cas had okayed Charlie as an employee at Anna's suggestion, it sort of was; she had a duty of care, or something like that, to make sure her friend was paid as promised – or, if Cas couldn't afford it, to smooth things over between them before it all became difficult. Anna had seen plenty of family relationships ruined by fights over money, let alone new friendships, and after everything else, she didn't want this to be one of them. 

'I'll ask Dean,' she finally said, as much to reassure herself as for any other reason.

'You really think he'll know?' said Charlie, popping her bubblegum. 'I mean, I get that they're serious and all, but still, they've only been dating for, like, a week and a half, and for most of that, they've been dealing with some pretty serious crap.'

'Oh, don't even get me started.' Anna rolled her eyes, and Charlie laughed. 'But, well, it's better than just wondering. You've got rent to pay, same as me.'

Charlie groaned. 'Don't remind me. I hate adulthood.'

'Tell me about it.' She glanced at the clock, and swore. 'Shit. I need to get back to the store. Call me if you hear anything?' She pointed at the ceiling, indicating the sleeping Cas.

Charlie grinned, nodding. 'So long as you return the favour.'

'Deal,' said Anna, and hurried back to Impala Records.

 

*

 

Dean was reading  _Pride and Prejudice_ and, much to his own astonishment, enjoying the hell out of it. Sure, he got tripped up on some of the language, but a truly good verbal smackdown was a thing of timeless beauty, and at several points, he'd actually laughed out loud. Which hurt a bit, thanks to the whole gunshot-and-torture regime his abdomen was recovering from, but not as much as it would have done even a day ago. Not for the first time, he looked up, wanting to share his delight in a particular line with Cas – but of course, he was alone. Longing stabbed through him: he wanted Cas to rest up, but selfishly, he didn't want him out of his sight, either. Picking up his phone, he thumbed through to the last picture Anna had sent him: Cas, sprawled facedown on his bed, his shirt rucked up to expose the skin of his lower back, hair sexily dishevelled, lips slightly parted, fast asleep. The image was as much torment as reassurance; Dean groaned in the back of his throat and set it aside, and pointedly tried  _not_ to think about walking in on Cas in such a state, running his hands up the backs of his thighs, kissing his neck and then his mouth as his lover turned towards him – 

Someone knocked on the door of his room.

Stifling a yelp, Dean sat up, strategically rearranging his blankets before calling out, 'Come in!'

He'd been expecting Anna. Instead, he got Special Agent Bao.

'Oh,' he said. 'It's you.' He didn't have to add,  _finally_ : it was the first he'd seen of her since her belated rescue at the Lucifer, and even without Anna's blow-by-blow account of their interview, it would have been painfully obvious she was avoiding him. 

'It's me,' she confirmed, shutting the door behind her. 'I won't stay long – I know I'm not your favourite person right now –'

'True,' said Dean.

'– but I thought you'd want to know: we've just arrested Teddy Brimmond.'

Dean tensed. 'And?'

'And, I was right. He had been working with Lassiter. It's why he was so forthcoming when he met you – he thought you'd be dead by the end of the night, and so didn't see a reason to be coy.'

'Well,' said Dean, his mouth suddenly dry, 'that makes a sick amount of sense.' And then something else occurred to him; a possibility he'd been subconsciously aware of, but which he hadn't allowed himself to contemplate. 'Son of a bitch. He was coming after me, wasn't he?'

'He was,' said Bao – a little sadly, Dean thought. 'Stupid and predictable, but it's how we caught him. He didn't know if your conversation had been recorded or not, and couldn't take the risk of you playing witness if it hadn't. But of course, you've been well-guarded here, and today, he let impatience get the better of him.'

Dean winced. 'Do I want to know how close he came?'

'I'll tell you this much: it wasn't very. As surprising as you may find it, Dean, we at the FBI are occasionally good at our jobs.'

'Well, I'll be damned.' But he managed to grin all the same.

'Oh which note,' said Bao, 'I've been asked to pass this on to Castiel.'

Reaching into the inside pocket of her jacket, she pulled out a small, rectangular parcel, depositing it just within his reach.

'What is it?' Dean asked.

'I don't know. I haven't looked.' His scepticism must have shown on his face; Bao snorted and said, 'I do have some standards, you know. Besides, I suspect my colleagues in Nevada have already checked it over.'

'Nevada?' Dean sat up. 'You mean, it's from his family?'

'Specifically, from his oldest sister, Clarity Fairchild. Though I believe she now prefers to be known as Claire.' She stepped back, hands by her sides. 'His mother and siblings are doing well, I'm told. Once they're discharged from hospital – which should be very soon – they'll be moved to an FBI safehouse pending their staged reintegration into society, at which point, they'll be allowed to start having visitors. Obviously, Castiel's name is at the top of the approved list – as, too, is yours.'

Dean blinked in surprise. 'Me?'

'Oh, don't look so shocked. Do you really think, after all of this, he'd visit them without you?'

'No,' said Dean, too off-balance to lie. 'I just figured your people wouldn't want me there. Keeping things simple, you know. No guys we got shot, no random civilians, no men dating men –'

'The FBI does love simplicity,' Bao said, deadpan. 'Which is why I pointed out that attempting to separate you from Mr Novak, or vice versa, would likely prove both complicated and messy.' She waved her fingers. 'Goodbye, Dean. Have a nice recovery. Here's hoping we never meet again.'

'Yeah,' said Dean, and was surprised to realise he wished her well. 'You, too.'

 

*

 

Cas woke groggily, his bladder full to bursting. Momentarily blind to any other considerations, he staggered over to the bathroom, relieved himself, splashed water on his face, and tried to figure out how long he'd been asleep. When had he come home? He'd told Anna he only wanted a quick nap, but he felt better than he had in days, and given how hungry he was, he didn't think he'd been out for just an afternoon. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out his phone – and stared, outraged, as he realised he'd lost an entire day and a half.

'Anna!' he bellowed, stomping downstairs to Books of a Feather. 'Anna, get over here!'

He emerged, blinking, into his store, and experienced a momentary confusion as to who the young, red-haired woman at his desk was, and why she was there. 'Charlie?' he hazarded. 'Anna's friend?'

The girl gulped. 'That's me!' She was gawky and sweet-looking, and even though he felt like a bear with a sore head, Cas couldn't bring himself to be cross at her. 'Nice to meet you, Mr Novak!'

'Call me Cas,' he said. 'Is Anna about?'

'Next door,' said Charlie.

'Oh. Right. Thanks.'

Still blinking the sleep from his eyes, he blundered into Impala Records, where he was forced to wait, fuming quietly, while Anna finished serving a trio of customers. She acknowledged him with a raised finger, rang up their purchases, and otherwise behaved with such calm professionalism that Cas was hard-pressed to stay angry. Still, he managed it, and once the customers had left, he advanced on Anna, arms crossed over his chest.

'You should have woken me,' he growled.

Anna's eyes were cool and unapologetic. ' _Could_ have, yes.  _Should_ have, no.'

'Says who?'

'Says the fact that you slept for thirty-six hours uninterrupted! You were exhausted, Cas. You needed rest, and you weren't getting it hovering by Dean's bedside like some manky hospital vulture.' As if to emphasise her point, she gave a disparaging sniff. 'God, and you're  _still_ wearing the same clothes. Go shower and change, will you?'

Cas opened his mouth, but the stinging retort he'd been hoping for failed to present itself. What came out instead was, 'Am I really that bad?'

Anna pulled a face. 'Castiel. Please. Shower. Now.'

'But I –'

' _Don't_ make me use my stern voice.' 

He blinked. 'This isn't your stern voice already?'

'It can get sterner.' She made a shooing gesture. 'Go on. Once you're dressed, we can grab some dinner at Well Bread and take it over to Dean, OK? He must be sick of hospital food by now.'

Cas felt his whole being brighten. 'Give me ten minutes.'

'Take twenty!' Anna called after him, laughing.

And, in the end, he did, though more because the hot water made him dizzy than from any native desire to dawdle. Once he was done, he padded into his room and raided his wardrobe, eventually selecting a pair of black jeans and a soft black Henley with three-quarter sleeves. Pulling on his boots, he headed out to the hall, but as he passed the bathroom, he stopped, transfixed by his own reflection.

He'd worn his old suit for so long, it was practically a uniform, and even though being with Dean had encouraged him to look beyond it, he'd still clung to something of that enforced formality. Now, though, he'd dressed more casually than he had in years and hadn't even thought twice about it. With his hair still wet from the shower and his jaw clean-shaven, he looked like a different person. And a healthier one, too, he was surprised to note. It wasn't just that his bruises had finally vanished, or that the dark, feverish circles under his eyes had gone: his skin was clearer, too, and his posture was different, his shoulders straight instead of hunched.

_Love looks good on me,_ Cas thought, and the simple truth of the admission, untainted by guilt or doubt, was enough to make him gasp. Warmth spread through his stomach, a pink flush creeping up his neck, and even though his first instinct was to duck his head, he made himself hold his own gaze in the mirror, smiling until he thought his jaw would break.

Nervous and happy, he went back down to Impala Records.

'You ready?' he called to Anna. She was in the process of locking up the till, and at the sight of him, she did a genuine double-take.

' _Cas?_ ' she said, almost disbelievingly. 

'Yeah?' He tugged the hem of his shirt, suddenly self-conscious. 'Do I look weird like this? I bet I look weird. I should change.'

'No, no!' Flapping a hand, she hurried out from behind the counter, looking him over from top to toe. Her mouth opened a little, eyebrows raising. 'I'll be damned,' she breathed.

'What? Why?'

'I mean, you were cute before, but this... you're going to give Dean a heart attack. You realise that, right?'

Cas just stared at her. 'Anna?' he asked, helplessly. 'Can you just say it, whatever it is?'

Anna groaned. 'God, you are  _the_ most painfully literal dork sometimes, you know that?' She crossed her arms. 'Lucky for you, you're also hot.'

'Seriously?' He could feel himself blushing again. 'That isn't... I mean, that's not something anyone's ever said to me before. And besides, it's only a change of clothes.'

'Trust me,' said Anna, 'it's really, really not.'

Embarrassed, Cas ran a hand through his hair. 'If you say so.' He bit his lip, searching desperately for a safe topic of conversation. 'So, uh, how are we getting to the hospital? Cab?'

'Please. Do I look like I'm made of money?' She thrust a keyring at him, and reflexively, Cas took it. 'You're driving the Impala.'

'Why me?'

Anna rolled her eyes. 'Because Dean only said that  _you_ could drive it, not me. Come on. You get her warmed up, and I'll grab the food.' 

'All right,' said Cas, and followed her out.

The Impala was parked in its usual spot, courtesy of the FBI, who'd moved it there days ago. In fact, it was the first thing Dean had asked Agent Rhys to do, when she'd put herself – and, by extension, the Bureau – at his disposal: recompense for injuries incurred in the line of duty. His second request had been that they foot his medical bills, and the third had involved getting him a cheeseburger, and while Rhys had eventually delivered on all three counts, she'd still had to endure a proprietary lecture from Dean on how to drive his beloved car: gentle steering, easy on the changes up from third and down to second, not scuffing the doors, and a half-dozen other things he'd deemed important. That he would trust the car to Cas without so much as a warning, even one delivered by proxy, made his heart turn over.

Reverently, Cas ran a hand along the bonnet. 'Hey there,' he said, not quite sure why he was talking to a car, but feeling it was somehow necessary. 'So, I'm going to try my best, here, but you'll need to be patient with me. I've never driven anything as valuable as you before.'

He unlocked the door and slipped into the driver's seat, inhaling deeply. The car smelled of Dean, and as he slid the key in the ignition, it felt almost sacrilegious to be doing it alone, without his lover there. Even so, he savoured the rumbling purr as the engine turned over, and by the time Anna returned with the food, he felt as if he and the car had somehow come to a private understanding.

'All right,' said Anna, lowering her purchases into the footwell. 'Let's go.'

'Sure,' said Cas, and eased out onto the road.

He heard Anna's seatbelt click – and then, a few seconds later, a different click altogether. He frowned, but didn't turn his head.

'Anna?'

'Yeah?'

'Did you just take a photo of me?'

'Maybe.'

'Why?'

'Trust me; it was necessary.'

Cas rolled his eyes. 'Whatever.'

He drove carefully all the way to the hospital, and by the time they arrived, he regretted ever having badmouthed the Impala. Sure, it was heavy and conspicuous, but unlike every other car he'd ever driven, it had a personality – it felt loved and worn, like a favourite shirt remembering the contours of a familiar body, and as the body in question was Dean's, it was impossible not to feel an affinity for it.

Finding a park, he pulled in and patted the dashboard fondly. 'Good girl,' he murmured.

Anna stared at him. 'Are you talking to the car?'

'No,' lied Cas. 'Of course not!'

' _Dork,_ ' Anna muttered. But she smiled all the same.

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

 

Dean had just reached the dinner scene at Rosings Park when Anna knocked on the door and called out, 'Permission to enter?'

'Permission –' he began, then faltered, caught off guard by Cas's entrance, '– granted.'

He swallowed hard, aware that he was staring and not giving a damn, because Cas looked – Cas looked –

'Told you so,' said Anna smugly, shutting the door behind them.

Cas ignored her, smiling at Dean. 'Hey,' he said.

'Hey yourself,' he managed, and as Cas leaned in for a quick kiss, Dean dropped the book and pulled him down for something altogether more passionate. Cas gasped, his weight balanced half on the mattress, half off, and returned the kiss with enthusiasm. Dean ran his fingers through Cas's damp hair, and when his lover finally broke away, visibly flushed, it was some moments before Dean could do anything but stare at him, completely overawed. He'd always thought Cas was gorgeous, but now, he seemed almost magnetic. It wasn't just that he was dressed in a way that made Dean want desperately to _un_ dress him, possibly with his teeth – though goddamn, did it help; the Henley emphasised his arms and shoulders, bringing out their muscular lines, while the the jeans hugged his hips and ass in all the right ways – but something deeper, as though he'd turned on a long-dormant light within himself.

'You're glowing,' Dean said wonderingly, running a thumb over Cas's lips.

His lover blushed, head tilted onside, and smiled like the sun coming out.

'Yes,' said Cas. 'I suppose I am.'

Dean was speechless. This was Cas as he deserved to be – relaxed and happy, not tense and guilt-ridden – and the difference was so profound, it was like looking at a whole new person.

'You want me to wait outside?' asked Anna. 'If you like, I can put a sock on the door handle, let the nurses know to give you some privacy.'

Dean was lost in Cas's eyes. 'God,' he breathed, 'please do.'

Cas took his hand and gently bit the heel of his palm. 'Whatever you want,' he said, slyly.

' _No_ .' Anna glared at them each in turn. 'That was _sarcasm_ , all right? No hospital sex, you guys! I'm right here, and I brought dinner, so you can just restrain yourselves until I'm gone, OK?' And to emphasise her point, she thumped a Well Bread carry-bag down on the table.

Dean's stomach betrayed him by rumbling, provoking a delighted chuckle from Cas.

'Dinner it is, then,' he sighed, and for the next ten minutes, they sat and ate and chatted like they were back in Cas's kitchen, just that well, and just that easily. Anna had even brought pie, for which kindness Dean heaped praise on her, but as tasty as it was – which was very – he was nonetheless distracted by the sight of Cas's tongue darting out to lick the purple juice from lips already stained dark. In point of fact, he almost choked on his own slice, and had to take a lengthy sip of water to recover. Not for the first time that day, his imagination had started to get the better of him, and even with Anna playing the part of chaperone, it was increasingly difficult not to think of everything he wanted to do with Cas.

When the food was finally gone, Anna started to tidy up, but Cas waved her to a stop, collecting the rubbish and heading out to dispose of it. For whatever reason, there wasn't a bin in the room, and so far, the nearest one they'd found was two hallways over.

Cas's departure afforded Dean a momentarily captivating view, and when his lover slipped out of sight, he actually ached a little.

Into the silence, Anna said, 'He looks good in your car, too. Here.' She pulled out her phone and brought up a photo of Cas in the Impala, which was, as far as Dean was concerned, pornography. The late afternoon light had caught him at just the right angle, threading his dark hair with gold; he was smiling slightly, one arm braced on the window as he steered with the other, fingers curved possessively over the wheel.

If Dean hadn't been aroused already, just that shot would've done it. 'Holy _god_.' He looked at Anna, desperate for confirmation. 'It's not just me, right? I'm not going crazy?'

She made a face. 'Believe me, I'm right there with you. In a purely aesthetic capacity, of course.'

'There is no way,' said Dean, his insecurities flaring up like arthritis, 'that I deserve someone this perfect.'

Anna made a disgusted noise and scrolled ahead to a different photo. 'I was wondering when you were going to get stupid. It's why I took this one. Here.'

It was a picture of him and Cas. She must have taken it that first night in hospital, when they'd shared a bed – the night they'd first said they loved each other. Dean's arms were bandaged and Cas's face bruised, but none of that mattered: they were cradling each other, foreheads touching, limbs entwined, and even though they were fast asleep, they were both half-smiling, utterly at peace.

'Oh,' said Dean. His throat tightened. ' _Oh_.'

'Yes, _oh_ ,' said Anna. 'And don't you forget it. In fact, I'm sending you both of these, just to be on the safe side.'

'Thanks,' croaked Dean. He rubbed his eyes, struggling not to cry over a damn photo, and so was caught completely off-guard when Anna suddenly blurted, 'Is Cas rich?'

'What?' Dean laughed, startled. 'He runs a secondhand bookshop, Anna. I'm thinking not.'

'Yeah, but – he hasn't said anything to you? About how much he makes, that sort of thing?'

'No.' He looked at her strangely. 'Why would you even ask that?'

Anna fidgeted. 'It's just, well, Charlie was looking at his accounts, you know, to make sure she was writing all the sales down properly, but it doesn't look like he actually makes enough profit to get by, and I was worried I'd pressured him into hiring on someone he couldn't afford, but if he's making money some other way, then it doesn't matter so much.'

Carefully, Dean said, 'Whatever Cas's finances, Charlie's going to get paid. I'll make sure of it.'

Anna's cheeks flamed red. 'I didn't mean –'

'Honestly, it's fine.' Dean smiled. 'You guys have really looked out for us – you especially, Anna, don't think I don't know it. We're not going to leave you out in the cold, or Charlie, for that matter. So don't worry, OK?'

Anna opened her mouth to reply, but was forestalled by Cas's return – as, indeed, was Dean, who suddenly felt like his heart was too big for his chest. God, even Cas's walk had changed, his cramped, self-conscious gait replaced by an easy stride that flowed from hip to shoulder, drawing the eye to all his best features. It made him look taller, too; or rather, he finally looked his real height, being straight-backed rather than hunched, as though a literal weight had lifted from his shoulders. He let his gaze roam over Cas, appreciating every visible inch of him, and rather than ducking his head, Cas lifted his chin and said, coyly, 'See something you like, or just browsing?'

Dean blushed like a virgin and said, 'Yes.'

Anna snorted. 'And that, right there, would be my cue to leave.' She stood up, stretching, and Dean jolted out of his Cas-induced stupor for long enough to ask, a little sheepishly, 'Do you need money for a cab? My shout.'

'I wouldn't say no,' she admitted, but before Dean could grab his wallet from the bedside table, Cas had already pulled out his own, withdrawing a handful of notes and passing them to Anna.

Reflexively, Anna took the money, then did a double-take, staring at Cas. 'I can't take this much.'

Cas blinked. 'Why not? You've been shuttling back and forth all week on our behalf, not to mention shelling out for food – we should've been paying right from the start.'

'Yeah, but –' she stared at the notes again, '– this is like, three hundred bucks. I've spent less than half that much, and that's being generous.'

'Anna.' Cas put his hands on her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her forehead. 'We'd both be lost without you, and you know it. So, please. Just take the money. I insist.'

Blushing furiously, Anna mumbled, 'All right, then,' and as she pulled out her purse, Cas looked at Dean over her head and _winked_.

Dean just stared at him, open-mouthed. _Did Cas just consciously use his sex appeal to get his own way with Anna? And it_ worked _?_ He was too impressed to be jealous; and then he thought, helplessly, _If Anna's not immune, what happens when he uses that trick on me?_

The possibilities were intoxicating. Dean's breath caught in his throat. _Please, god, let him use it on me._

He was barely aware of saying goodbye to Anna, but he sure as hell noticed when the door clicked shut behind her, because then it was just him and Cas, and it was like a dam had broken: the arousal he'd been barely suppressing rushed back in full, leaving him rock-hard and gasping. Cas was on the bed in seconds, knees on either side of Dean's thighs, straddling him. Gripping the bed's raised back with his left hand, Cas splayed his right along Dean's throat and tilted his face up, kissing him passionately. Dean whimpered into his mouth, gripping Cas's hips and wishing desperately that he could grind against him without making his injuries worse, because even this much distance between them was a torment.

Cas broke the kiss, his free hand trailing down Dean's throat to his collarbone and back again, their foreheads pressed together.

'I don't want to hurt you,' Cas whispered. His voice was hoarse with lust, and as he spoke, he was peppering Dean with teasing kisses, temple and cheek and jaw. 'I just want _you_.'

Dean moaned, stretching up to bite and suck at Cas's neck. Putting his mouth to Cas's ear, he panted, 'Fuck me. Please god, Cas, I –' He broke off, shuddering pleasantly as Cas reached under the blankets, stroking him through the hospital gown. ' _Fuck_. Please, please, please, I can't – ahh!'

That was pain, not pleasure; Cas stopped instantly. 'Are you all right?'

'Yeah.' Dean bit his lip. 'Son of a bitch, I can't – if I push up, it _pulls_ , and oh, fuck –' He lay back, aching in every way imaginable. 'God, this is unbearable.'

Cas rocked back on his heels. 'What if you lie flat? Would that help?'

'Yeah, but there's no point. I can't, uh –' he gestured helplessly, '– thrust.'

'So don't thrust,' Cas murmured, kissing the side of his mouth. 'Just let me take care of you.'

'OK.' Breathing raggedly, Dean watched as Cas slid off the bed and lowered the mattress-back, until he was fully horizontal. The bed was still higher than normal, though, and after a moment's consideration, Cas turned the nearest chair sideways, pushed it up to the edge, and knelt on it, leaning over him

Dean gulped. 'What, uh, what are you – oh. _Oh,_ ' he said, as Cas lowered the blankets and lifted his gown. _The door's unlocked_ , he thought wildly, _we're in a hospital and the door's unlocked and anyone could just_ – 'Oh, _fuck_!'

Cas licked up his shaft, the fingers of one hand gently stroking the inside of his thigh. He paused, looking wickedly up at Dean, and murmured, 'Remember, you have to keep still. Can you do that, love?'

Dean gripped the blankets. 'God, I hope so.'

'Me, too,' said Cas, and wrapped his lips around him.

It was agony and ecstasy, a bondage game without ropes. Dean _had_ to lie still – literally, physically _had_ to – when all he wanted to do was arch his back and buck his hips and shove his fingers through Cas's hair, completely undone by the feel of his lover's warm mouth. He could barely tense his stomach, which should have made it impossible, but Cas went so slowly, sucking and licking and stroking with such exquisite care, that Dean was rendered liquid from the waist down. He knew he was moaning, begging in a breathless, profane litany – knew, too, that anyone within earshot of the room could undoubtedly hear him – but didn't care; and somehow, that only aroused him more, the same way it had that day in the Impala, when Cas had practically mounted him in front of the whole street. He wasn't that he liked exhibiting himself – or at least, he didn't think it was – but when he was with Cas, the rest of the world didn't matter.

He tipped his head back, panting and sweating. Pleasure was building in him in waves; his calf muscles were spasming, he was trying so hard to keep still, and Cas just kept going, fingers teasing as he took Dean deep in his throat, and suddenly he was coming, almost sobbing with relief as Cas brought him over the edge.

'Oh god. Oh god.' He felt utterly wrecked, yet never more alive. Trembling, he grabbed Cas's arm and tugged him forwards, pulling him onto the bed and up against his unshot side. And then they were kissing; he could taste himself on his lover's tongue, and as he undid Cas's jeans and pulled him free, stroking urgently, Cas shuddered and gasped and came over his hip. They fell back, breathing heavily. Reaching out, Dean grabbed some tissues from the bedside and cleaned himself up, which left him with just enough energy left to tug the blankets over them both.

Cas kissed his ear, trailing his touch across Dean's wrist. 'God, I love you.'

'I love you, too.' He turned, looking into Cas's eyes, trembling as he twined their fingers together. 'You're just... I don't even have words. I wish I did, I wish I knew how to say it, how it make it make sense outside my head, but if this is what it really feels like to want something, then I've never wanted anything else, or anyone else, but you. You're the horizon, Cas. You're all can I see.'

'Whatever I am,' Cas whispered, 'I'm yours.'

Dean leaned in and kissed him, gasping a little as his stitches stretched, but it was worth it, because Cas was worth it.

Cas was worth everything.

 

*

 

Stretching, Cas glanced down and spied Dean's book, carelessly spraddle-paged where his lover had dropped it. Reaching down to rescue it, he was overwhelmed to see it was _Pride and Prejudice_. 'You're reading this?'

'I promised I would.'

Cas swallowed, almost afraid to ask. 'Are you enjoying it?'

'Yeah, actually, I am.' Dean sounded surprised. 'I mean, I didn't think I would, but it's great. Caroline Bingley's such a bitch, and Lady Catherine? Oh, man. Lizzie is going to _own_ her.'

'Where are you up to?' Cas asked.

'Dinner at Rosings.' Dean thumbed through the paperback for the right page, and then said, almost shyly, 'You, uh... you want to read it with me?'

By way of answer, Cas kissed him soundly, and for the next twenty minutes, they did just that, Cas holding the book while Dean turned the pages, cuddled together in a silence broken only by quiet laughter. Cas was the faster reader, but he didn't mind a bit: whenever he finished a page, he stole a secret glance at Dean, his heart full to overflowing. And then, at no provocation Cas could see, Dean suddenly dropped his side of the book and said, 'Shit! I forget your parcel!'

'My what?'

'Your parcel,' Dean said. 'It's by the bed, in the drawer. Agent Bao was here earlier; she dropped it off, and I meant to give it to you straight away, but then you walked in and I just got.... distracted.' More quietly, he said, 'She said it's from your sister. From Clarity.'

Cas's hand tensed on the brown-wrapped package. Slowly, he sat up, holding it like he was scared it would explode. 'I don't think I can open it.'

Dean, who was still lying down, looked up him with eyes that were no less green than spring, and asked, 'Do you want me to do it?'

Cas took a deep breath. 'No,' he said, letting it out. 'It's all right. I just... I just need a moment, is all.'

'Hey, it's not like I'm going anywhere.'

Absurdly, Cas smiled. 'You want me to put the bed up again?'

'Please.'

He grabbed the remote, sliding down a little as the mattress rose, until they were both upright. Without quite meaning to, Cas leaned over and rested his head on Dean's shoulder. Then, before he could lose his nerve, he ripped the parcel open.

A book fell out. Trembling, Cas picked it up, unable to believe what he was seeing.

'Oh my god,' he whispered. It wasn't possible. It was a mistake. And yet it was right there in front of him, and he couldn't understand _how_.

'Cas?' Dean asked, concerned. 'What is it?'

'I thought he burned it.' Cas was shaking, his vision blurred. 'All these years, I thought he burned it.'

It was his copy of _The Killing Choice_ , the one John Aveline had given him. A novel which, once upon a time, had been his most treasured possession, and which he'd been certain Brother Tiberius had burned, the same as all his other books. But here it was, just as he remembered it: the naff, psychedelic cover; the yellowing pages, marked by a single splash of red – his blood – in the bottom right corner; and – he opened it, hardly daring to believe – a whole page of his teenage writings, scrawled on the inside front cover.

'This is yours?' Dean asked, gently.

Cas nodded, tears spilling down his cheeks. 'My friend at the bookshop in Joseph, John Aveline, gave it to me. It was – it is – important. But I thought Tiberius burned it years ago.' He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. 'I didn't have a journal to write in, so I used my books, and because this one was special to me, I saved it for special things.' He laughed. 'I must have hidden it. If it never burned, I must have hidden it somewhere and forgotten – I hid books everywhere, I couldn't just leave them out – and somehow, Clarity found it.'

He sat there, stunned, unable to wrap his mind around the implications. Not only had Clarity found his book, but she'd _kept_ it, too – not just at the time, but for years afterwards, even bringing it out of the compound – and why would she do that, if she hadn't read it? And if she'd read the book, it stood to reason that she'd read his pages of additions, too. No, that wasn't right: his _page_ of additions, singular. He'd only ever used the front cover of _The Killing Choice_ , because once it was full, he hadn't wanted to risk using up the other side for anything less than his very best thoughts. And then it had burned – or he'd thought it did – and none of it had mattered.

But when, out of sheer habit, he flipped over to the back cover, he found it covered in writing – and not just the cover, but the three blank pages before it, too, the letters small and spiky and cramped and so unlike his own that even Dean, who'd hardly studied his penmanship, knew instantly what it meant.

'That's hers, isn't it?' he said, softly. 'She copied you.'

Cas nodded, unable to speak. _She sent me her diary_. He squeezed his eyes shut, steeling himself, and when he opened them again, his gaze was drawn to four lines written in capitals in the cover's middle. Each stroke was bold and thick, which should have made it easier to read, except that Clarity had traced her words over so many times, the ink had pooled and bled, obscuring the text. Cas had to squint to make it out, but once he did, his heart stopped.

 

_**BEYOND THE WALL** _

_**BENEATH THE SKY** _

_**MY BROTHER LIVES** _

_**AND SO WILL I** _.

 

An ugly noise made its way up his throat, neither tears nor grief, but something too big for a single word, the way love was; and then Dean was holding him, pulling him close, which was all that kept him from breaking apart. Cas sobbed against his shoulder, tears and laughter mingling: the world was cruel and strange and full of ugly miracles, the most fickle of which was forgiveness, and the oldest of which was hope.

'It's OK, baby,' Dean was saying, 'it's OK, I've got you, I've got you,' and somehow, the words were like oxygen; Cas breathed them in, and kissed Dean's neck, and again, and again, inching his mouth upwards as the tears stopped, losing himself in touch, because he was alive, he was _alive_ , and in that moment, nothing else mattered but proving it to both of them.

'Cas?' Dean pulled back slightly, cupping his cheek, eyes wide with concern. 'Cas, baby? Are you here?'

'I'm here,' Cas whispered, and kissed him fiercely, sucking on Dean's bottom lip until he groaned and grabbed him. They were like teenagers, touching and teasing and, in Dean's case, begging; and so, appropriately enough, they were caught like teenagers, springing apart at a stern ' _Ahem_!' from the doorway.

There stood a nurse, her broad arms crossed and a look on her face that was somewhere between sincere exasperation and poorly-suppressed mirth. 'Gentlemen!' she said. 'While I appreciate the holistic role of TLC in medicine as much as the next professional, this is neither your high school prom nor a love hotel. There have been _complaints_ .' The nurse raised a pointed eyebrow at Cas, who grinned back without the slightest trace of shame, and then turned her glare on Dean, who blushed. 'May I suggest, Mr Winchester, that if you're feeling well enough to make such _enthusiastic_ prayers to the lord our god, you're well enough to recuperate at home?'

Dean stared at her. 'I am?'

'He was _shot_!' said Cas, outraged against his own inclinations, which involved taking Dean home more or less instantly.

'Which is why I'm still prescribing bed rest, a schedule of follow-up visits, a regimen of our very finest painkillers and a pamphlet on how to change your own bandages,' the nurse replied, deadpan. To Dean, she added, 'This isn't a get out of jail free card. You need rest, and plenty of it. But you're out of the danger zone. You're healing well. You can walk to the bathroom and back again. So, how's about we make a deal: you make yourself decent, I give you a once-over, and provided you're up to standard, we'll have you out of here inside of an hour. If, however, I find you've ripped your stitches – or rather, that _he's_ ripped them –' she looked daggers at Cas, '– then we have a serious conversation about hospital etiquette, and I move you to a public ward. Do we have an understanding?'

'Yes ma'am!' said Dean. The tips of his ears were turning pink.

The nurse smiled. 'Attaboy! Now, I'm going to go stand outside that door and count to thirty while _you_ –' she pointed at Cas, '– get your pants done up and _you_ –' she swung back to Dean, '– preserve what's left of your modesty. And then I'm coming back in to do my job, ready or not.'

And with that, she spun on her heel and left.

The lovers looked at each other; Dean cracked a smile, but it was Cas who laughed.

'Oh, god, what a day.' He hopped out of bed and, as instructed, did up his jeans, which by some miracle were still unstained. 'Please tell me your stitches are fine. I want you home.'

'Me, too,' said Dean, straightening his gown as he gingerly swung his legs over the bed. 'Though I'm not sure how I'll manage the stairs.'

Cas kissed his nose and grinned. 'Don't worry, love. I'll carry you over the threshold.'

Dean sucked in breath at the inference, and suddenly Cas felt dizzy for a whole new reason. _Did I really just make a joke about that?_ Apparently, he had, and as neither one of them seemed to know what to make of it, he shrugged and smiled as if to say, _No harm done!_ , and flattened himself against the wall just as the nurse returned.

Throughout Dean's examination, he was silent, half-afraid that, if he spoke, he'd somehow jinx the results. But once the nurse finally pronounced him well enough to leave, and had run through all the promised litanies of routines, painkillers and rest, a sort of madness came over Cas. He kept it in check while Dean changed into his own clothes, distracting himself by packing all their things – his book included – into a backpack which, being Anna's, was slightly too small for his frame. He fidgeted with it the whole time Dean was dealing with hospital paperwork, then told himself sternly to keep calm. But when a new nurse arrived with a wheelchair, Cas couldn't contain himself. As his lover took a wobbly step towards the chair, Cas intercepted him, looping Dean's arms around his neck and scooping him into his arms. The second nurse looked scandalised, but the first one laughed – a rolling, belly-deep sound – and said, 'Well, that's one way to do it. Just don't drop him!'

'Never,' said Cas, and carried him like that all the way to the car.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear everyone who's been reading this: thank you so much! I've still got a little bit left to go - two chapters at most, I think - but as I'm about to head off to LonCon3 in two days' time, where I'll be for a week, there's a chance I won't get them done before I leave. I'm really trying to finish before then so as not to leave you all hanging, but just in case I don't manage it, I just wanted to reassure you that the end is coming, and that it's not far off. Thank you all! :)


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: discussion/description of rape. (Not graphic, though.)

Dean was reading in bed when Anna burst into his room and demanded, apropos nothing he could think of, ‘You have a  _brother_ ?’

Dean blinked at her, setting his book aside. He'd been home two days, and had traded _Pride and Prejudice_ for Anna's copy of _The Hunger Games_ , which he was loving in an entirely different way. ‘Yes?’ he asked, momentarily uncertain if this was, in fact, the right answer.

‘And you never thought to tell him you were in hospital?’

‘No, but –’

‘What the hell is _wrong_ with you?’ Anna yelled. ‘I mean, it’s pretty much Family 101, Dean – even if you hate each other the rest of the time, if someone gets shot, you call!’

‘Hey, easy!’ Dean held up his hands, baffled and defensive. ‘I was going to tell him eventually. It’s just, he’s off at Stanford, and I didn’t want to worry him –’

‘Well, consider him worried.’

His mouth fell open. ‘ _What?_ ’

‘He, ah, just called the store.’ Anna looked equal parts guilty and defiant. ‘It was an accident! I mean, he said he was your brother and that your mobile wasn’t working, and I said the doctors had told you to turn it off when you were sleeping, and he said _what_ doctors, and I said, what, you think he’s Superman? A guy gets shot, he’s going to be seeking medical advice! And then he kind of freaked out on me, because – surprise! – _he didn’t know you’d been shot_ , and the only way I could calm him down was to tell him you’d call right back. So.’ She proffered his phone – which was, as predicted, turned off – and added, almost as an afterthought, ‘Sorry.’

Dean groaned. ‘Dammit, Anna!’

‘Well, excuse me for thinking he already knew!’

‘What’s all the shouting for?’ Cas asked, sauntering in with a mug in each hand. ‘Is Dean being obstreperous?’

Anna crossed her arms. ‘No. He neglected to tell his brother he was in hospital, so I just did it by accident.’

‘Oh.’ Cas kissed him on the cheek – Dean flushed; even casual affection from Cas was distracting – and set his coffee down on the table. ‘I can see how that might be problematic.’

‘That’s all you have to say?’ said Anna, incredulous.

Cas shrugged, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, his lower back warm against Dean’s legs. ‘Well, in fairness, if anyone was going to ring him when Dean went into surgery, it should’ve been me. But as you may recall, I was too wound up at the time to even think of it.’

‘To put it mildly,’ Anna muttered. She waved an irritable hand at Dean. ‘Well, go on, then – call him back!’

‘Were you always this bossy, or has the power just gone to your head?’ Dean grumbled, switching on the phone. ‘Honestly, I should hire you to be my mother.’

'I thought you already had,’ said Anna tartly.

Dean poked out his tongue, and checked his messages. Sure enough, he saw he had three missed calls from Sam, all within the past few hours. Suppressing a pang of guilt, he made a show of hitting redial and said, ‘See?’

‘Good,’ said Anna, and with that, she turned and stomped back down to Impala Records.

‘She seems tense,’ said Cas, innocently taking a sip of coffee. ‘And you usually have such a calm, relaxing effect on people.’

‘Bite me,’ said Dean, and was more than a little thrilled when Cas did just that, nipping gently up the inside of his wrist. Dean shivered, and things might have escalated very quickly indeed, except that Sam chose that moment to answer, bursting out with, ‘Dean, thank god! What the hell happened? Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine, Sammy.’ He smiled at Cas, who kissed his knuckles and sat back, grinning. ‘Really.’

‘You were shot!’

‘Yeah, a bit. Everyone’s so hung up on it.’ Sam made an outraged noise, and Dean, sighing, said, ‘That thing with Crowley I told you about? Well, it went a bit sideways on me, but it’s fine now. All wrapped up. I mean, the FBI didn’t catch him –’

‘ _The FBI?_ ’

‘– but he’s not the one who was after me, and the others are either dead or in jail, so –’

‘ _Others?_ ’ Sam sounded genuinely panicked. ‘Who’s after you?’

‘Sammy, would you just listen to what I’m saying? I’m _fine_! It’s over!’

‘Dean, seriously, I can be on a plane in three hours, I just need a little time –’

‘Hey, whoah!’ Dean sat up – a little too sharply, as it happened; he winced, and Cas squeezed his hand, concerned – and tried to get a grip on the conversation. ‘Listen, slow down, OK? Now, I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier, but right now, you’re kind of proving me right about why I thought I should wait. Yes, I was shot, and yes, there’s a long, complicated story as to how it all happened, but the main thing is, I’m back at home, I’m healing fine, and you don’t need to drop everything and fly cross-country just to be at my bedside.’

Sam snorted. ‘Come on, I'm not about to leave you to fend for yourself. You need someone to look after you.’

‘I have someone looking after me! Multiple someones, actually,’ he added, to give Anna her dues, and felt a warm flush of happiness at the realisation.

Sam, however, was unconvinced. ‘The pizza delivery guy and some chick you hired to mind the store don’t count, Dean.’

‘OK, firstly, Anna is a friend, and not just _some chick_ , all right? And secondly, even if she wasn’t busting her ass to help me out, I’m not alone. I’ve got Cas.’

‘ _Cas_?’ Sam echoed. ‘Who the hell’s Cas?’

‘He’s my –’ Dean fumbled for the right word, _lover_ being too personal, ‘– partner.’

‘What, like a business partner?’

‘No, you idiot. Like the guy I’m sleeping with.’

‘Wait a minute. You’re _gay_?’

Dean blinked, hurt. ‘Bisexual, actually, and how the hell did you not already know that about me? For god’s sake, Sammy, it’s why I got kicked out of the army!’

‘Wait, _what?_ ’ If anything, Sam sounded even more upset now than he had done earlier. ‘Seriously?’

‘No, I beat my commanding officer to death with a rubber chicken. Yes, seriously! What, you think I’d lie about something like that?’

‘No,’ said Sam, slowly, ‘but apparently dad would. Did, I mean.’

Now it was Dean’s turn to be startled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I _mean_ , he told me you got booted for disobeying orders, stealing stuff. You know, being generally disreputable.’

Dean felt like he'd been kicked in the chest. He laughed, and it came out cracked. ‘Of course he did. Had to be straight on dad’s watch. He probably thought he was doing me a favour.'

‘Dean, I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t –’ Sam broke off, a note of horror creeping into his voice. ‘Oh god, that argument we had, what I said about you sabotaging yourself, I didn’t – if I’d known why, I would never –’

‘It’s all right, Sammy.’ Dean ran a hand down his face. ‘Really. It’s not your fault. It’s his.’

‘But I don’t understand.’ His brother sounded pained. ‘Why would he do that? Why would he let me think you’d done something terrible? He was so angry about it, he made me think you’d let him down –’

‘Because I did,’ said Dean. ‘In his mind, I did.’ He swallowed, drawing strength from Cas – the touch of his hand, those fathomless eyes. ‘He blamed me for mom, Sam. I broke our smoke alarm just before the fire, and he figured, if I hadn’t done that, she wouldn’t have died.’

‘You were just a kid!’

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s what he thought.’

Sam was appalled. ‘You can’t know that for sure –’

‘Yeah, actually. I can. That Christmas we stayed with Bobby, I overheard dad talking about it.’ Dean shut his eyes, unable to bear the compassion in Cas’s face. ‘He said he didn’t love me, and that I didn’t deserve to have known her, because it was my fault. Bobby was furious with him; it’s why we never went back.’

‘Oh, Jesus.’ Sam sounded sick. ‘So when you called the other night, when you asked if dad ever said he loved me, and I just – that was because he never told you? Not even once?’

‘Maybe when I was little, but after mom? No. Not even once.’ Dean laughed, soft and sad. 'We really did have different childhoods, didn't we? He never raised a hand to you.'

‘Yeah, but he never hit you ei –’ Sam stopped, and Dean just waited out the silence, until Sam finally said, ‘I’m such an idiot.’

‘Sammy –’

‘All those times I saw you beat up, all the limping and bruises and black eyes, that wasn’t just you getting in fights? That was _dad_?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, it was. I mean, I sometimes did get into it with other kids, but, well. You know.’ His stomach twisted. ‘Those scraps, I tended to win.’

‘And you never told me?’ Sam laughed, an angry, anguished bark. ‘No, of course you didn’t, because you shouldn’t have had to. I should have just _looked_.’

Hot tears pricked Dean’s throat. ‘It’s not your fault. You were just a kid.’

‘And you weren’t?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know.’ And then, more hesitantly, ‘You really didn’t know? Not any of it?’

‘I swear, I didn’t.’ Sam gulped. ‘Jesus, Dean, I can’t – I don’t even know how to process this. Dad used to say that you getting in fights was half the reason we moved around so much as kids, because he didn’t know how else to keep you in school, but if it was just him beating you, then why did we move? Was he ducking child services, or just plain restless, or what? Was anything in my childhood real? I mean, I always thought you were a good person, but I still grew up thinking you were this scary, angry, uncontrolled guy, and when dad told me about you getting discharged, I figured you’d just messed up again. It fit the story, you know? And all this time, he was lying to me.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Dean swiped at his eyes. ‘He could be a real sonofabitch.’

There was a heavy silence. Then, awkwardly, Sam said, ‘So, your, uh, partner – Cas? He’s there, looking after you?’

‘Yeah,’ said Dean, gripping Cas's hand. ‘He is.’

‘Is he around right now?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can I… would you mind if I spoke to him?’

‘I don’t know. Hang on.’ He held the phone to his chest, looking confusedly at Cas. ‘He wants to speak to you. Is that OK?’

‘Sure,’ said Cas. ‘Unless you’d rather I didn’t.’

‘No. I mean, go ahead.’ Dean forced a smile. ‘Actually, I think you guys might get along. Here.’

He passed the phone to Cas, and it felt like shedding a physical weight; he lay back against his pillows, so dazed by the conversation with Sam that he almost forgot to feel anxious about his lover and brother speaking.

‘Hello, Sam,’ said Cas. ‘Yes. Yes, he is. I don’t think you need to apologise. No.’ A long pause. ‘I’d like that. I’ll see what I can do. Actually, that could work out well.’ He laughed. ‘Yes, this number is fine. Or the store. We’ll answer eventually. Speaking of which, why did you call? I didn’t think – oh.’ He nodded, listening. ‘No, that makes sense. Yeah. It’s quite a story. OK. Hang on.’ And then, to Dean, ‘You want to say goodbye?’

Dean shook his head; it hadn't been the sort of call you could just tie up with a ribbon.

‘He’s good,’ said Cas. ‘All right. Same to you.’

He hung up, set the phone and his coffee down on the bedside table, and took a hold of Dean's hand, gently massaging the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. 'Are you all right?' he asked.

Dean gulped. 'How much of that did you hear?'

'Enough,' said Cas. There was a pause. 'He really didn't know you were bi?'

'I guess not,' Dean said. He dropped his gaze to their hands, watching the smooth progress of Cas's thumb over his palm. 'I mean, I was never shy about bringing home girls – it always seemed to make dad happy, keep him in a good mood, so I did it a lot. But the one time he caught me kissing a guy, it... didn't go well.'

'What happened?'

Dean winced. 'He broke two of my ribs, for starters. I think we told Sam I fell off a motorbike.' He shook his head, discomforted by his own complicity in the lie. 'After that, I was pretty careful about things, and Sam was four years younger, so it's not like we sat down and talked about that stuff. By the time he was old enough, I'd already left home, and once I came back from the army, we lived in different cities. So, yeah. If dad never told him, it makes sense he wouldn't know.'

Cas's touch slid from palm to wrist, encouraging Dean to look up again. 'You never brought anyone home with you? For Christmas, or Easter, or something like that?'

'What, like a partner? No. There wasn't anyone like that, male or female.' He tried to smile, and failed dismally. 'My longest ever relationship was with Lassiter, and that was hardly what you'd call functional.'

Cas stayed silent, but his eyes spoke volumes. Gently, he slid fingers slid from Dean's wrist up to his elbow, smoothing circles in the crook of his arm, the simple contact giving Dean the courage to speak. He'd finally told Sam the truth, and somehow, it made this second honesty, if not easier, then less hard.

'I wasn't in a good place, back then. I didn't know what I wanted, but Lassiter told me he knew what I needed, and I was so messed up, I believed him. It was easier that way. Or I thought it was, at first.' Dean gulped, running a hand through his hair. He'd never told this story before, though he'd come close with Anna, and each word was like pulling a thorn from his throat. 'It was angry. Aggressive. He was always in charge, always controlling. I was submissive, and I hated myself, and I thought it was all the same thing, that I wanted to be punished because I was a bad person, that I deserved pain. Because I didn't... I mean, I liked what he did, or some of it, but he'd hurt me, too, and I didn't know how to separate it out. If I ever said no, he'd laugh, because I'd still be hard, and that must mean I was teasing him, so he'd keep going, and I'd struggle, and he'd tell me how I liked it rough, and I believed him, Cas, I  _had_ to believe I deserved it, that it was meant to hurt, that I was meant to hate it, because otherwise it was rape, and I didn't want that to have happened to me, so I made it my fault –'

He broke off, gasping as though he'd snapped a rib. He badly needed to be held, and suddenly Cas was there, sliding up the bed to pull him close. Dean clung to him, digging his fingers into the soft fabric of his lover's shirt, breathing in the scent of him. Cas stroked his back, and murmured, 'It wasn't your fault.'

'I know,' said Dean. _Or I do now, anyway._ He lifted his head a little, settling himself against Cas's shoulder, and said, 'After we were discharged, I didn't see him for nearly two years. I was with the police by then, living in a new state, new town, and god, I was lonely. And then Sam called to tell me dad had died.'

Cas didn't say  _I'm sorry_ , and if it were even possible, Dean loved him all the more. Instead, he asked, 'How did it happen?'

'Car crash. He was driving drunk, swerved into the wrong lane, hit a truck. The other guy came out with a broken arm, but that was it. So I drove to Sacramento for the funeral, which was about as awful as you'd expect, and Sam wanted me to stay, talk with him, reminisce about dad, but the person he was crying over wasn't who I remembered, you know? And maybe I should've just told him then, but I was so angry, I didn't know how to do it without hurting Sam worse. So I bailed out, went to see some army friends who were back on leave – there was this party, you know – and Lassiter was there. And he wanted to talk to me.'

Dean leaned into Cas, into the warmth of him. 'He came up like there was nothing wrong, like everything was fine between us. So I pretended it was fine, too. We talked for a bit, and I was drinking way too much, and then he asked if I wanted to get out of there. And I mean, I didn't want to sleep with him – I wasn't that far gone – but I did want to leave, and I was drunk enough to convince myself he didn't mean it that way. So we left the party, and we were walking through this part of Sacramento I didn't know, and we ended up on a bridge, and suddenly he was shoving me up against the railing, saying how I owed him for getting us booted, and he was just – he wouldn't  _listen_ , and I was fighting him, and I forgot about pretending he'd never hurt me and I – I called him what he was. I called him a rapist. And it made him  _furious_ .' 

He shut his eyes, thin tears leaking from under the lids. 'He just started screaming at me, saying I was selfish and a liar, that I'd already ruined him once and I didn't get to do it again, and that if – if I'd let him do something I really hated so much, then I was so pathetic, I really had deserved it, and how I should just kill myself instead of taking it out on him. And I couldn't cope any more, I thought he was right, and the railing was right there, and I just... I jumped.'

Horrified, Cas tightened his arms around him. 'Oh, god, Dean.'

'Luckily for me, it was a low bridge over water, so all that happened was, I got drenched and bruised and ended up with pneumonia.' He exhaled softly. 'And Lassiter took me to hospital. He told everyone I'd fallen in, and I was so drunk, and he was being so kind to me, that I just... I made myself forget it, again. And the next day, when he came to see how I was, he said he was sorry we'd gotten into a fight, and I apologised for saying such horrible things. And then he left, and I didn't see him again until last week, when he walked into the store.'

For a long moment, they were both silent. Dean felt strangely calm, as though he were floating. Lassiter was dead, the truth was spoken, and he was still here. Slowly, unbelievably, he smiled.

'Cas?'

'Yeah?'

'Kiss me?'

And he did, a tender brush of mouths that left him gasping. He lay back, pulling Cas with him, and for a brief eternity, nothing else existed. Cas stroked his jaw, his blue eyes dark where they bore into Dean's, and whispered, 'I love you.'

'I love you, too.'

They kissed again, slow and sweet, and when they finally pulled apart, Dean said, 'So, what did Sammy say to you?'

Cas twined their fingers together. 'Actually, he wants us to visit. That's why he called in the first place – he and Jess are moving into a new place together, and as you were apparently quite upset that he hadn't told you his new phone number, he wanted to let you know. When you didn't answer, he got worried and called the store.'

Dean blinked. 'Visit him? Like, in California?'

'That's the idea, yeah.'

'Do you want to?'

Cas seemed surprised. 'Is there some pressing reason why I shouldn't?'

'No.' Dean had a lump in his throat. 'You really want to?'

Smiling, Cas reached across and stroked his jaw. 'I really want to. In fact, I was thinking we might drive there, once you're feeling better. Make it a road trip, you know.'

Shyly, Dean said, 'I'd like that. We could even, uh –' he hesitated, not sure how the suggestion would be greeted, '– swing by Nevada, if you wanted. See your family too. Bao said they'd be moved to a real house soon, and that we were cleared as visitors. But only if you want to.'

Cas's eyes widened. 'Oh,' he breathed, and Dean knew he was thinking of Clarity, and the diary-book. 'I – yes. Yes, please.'

Dean squeezed his hand. 'You think we can talk Anna and Charlie into running the stores while we're gone?'

Cas hesitated. 'Do they really need to be open?'

'Well, if you want to keep making money, yeah,' said Dean – and then he remembered what Anna had said about Cas's accounts, and how he probably couldn't afford to pay Charlie for this week, let alone over a longer period, and winced. 'But if it's not cost-effective, then we can figure out something else.'

'Huh?'

'I mean, if it's too much money, you just have to say.'

Cas was puzzled. 'Why would it be too much money?'

'To pay Charlie. You know, if the shop's not making that much, I don't want you to lose out –'

'Oh!' And to Dean's absolute astonishment, Cas burst out laughing. 'Dean, the bookshop's never made a profit. I run it because I want to, not because I need to. I have plenty of money.'

'You do?' he said, startled.

'I do,' said Cas. A sad smile crossed his face. 'It's because of John Aveline. He died seven years ago. It was sudden, painless – a heart attack in his sleep. He didn't have any family, so he left what he had to me. Which, at the time, wasn't much – his possessions, his store and home in Joseph, and a parcel of land he bought decades ago. It was out in the middle of nowhere, totally worthless, or so he'd always thought; I don't know why he bought it. And then, a few months after he died, I was approached by a consortium of buyers. They offered a few hundred thousand for the land, but got edgy when I started asking why. So I told them no, and overnight, they doubled their starting offer. And I thought, what's so special about this place? I'd already sold the house and store in Joseph, so I wasn't desperate for money, and I had enough that I could hire someone to look into why the other land might be valuable. I figured, John had held onto it all those years, so if I was going to sell, I might as well do it right, for his sake.' He snorted. 'It turned out, it was right in the middle of an area this big company wanted to tap for oil, but they couldn't start drilling without my land, and nobody had realised until they'd bought up all the surrounding property, and found there was a bit left over. Which meant I had them over a barrel. They'd been seriously lowballing the value, hoping I wouldn't notice. But once the cat was out of the bag, they got generous. They had to.'

Dean just stared at him. 'Cas,' he asked, voice strangely hoarse, 'are you rich?'

Cas appeared to consider the question. 'Yes,' he said, after a moment. 'Very.'

'So why –'

'Why do I live here, run a bookshop?' Dean blushed, nodding, and Cas sighed. 'The first year I had money – the first year I lived in Monument – I... well, I went a bit mad. I'd been poor my whole life, and lonely, and I didn't know how to be sensible, and the only things I really needed, or wanted, even, weren't for sale. I couldn't buy my family free from the Fellowship, I couldn't buy the scars off my back, I couldn't buy a sense of self-worth, and if I couldn't buy any of that, then it didn't seem reasonable that I buy anything else, either. And I thought about John Aveline, about how it was really his money, about what he would've done with it if he hadn't died, and I realised: nothing. He was a good man, happy in himself, and he'd told me himself a dozen times that he didn't sell books to make money; he just liked to find them new homes.

'So I bought a bookshop, and I went back to living like I always had. Except that now, I donate most of what I earn in interest to charity.' He gripped Dean's hand, suddenly serious. 'Dean, I want you to know, the lie Crowley told you about Sam being in debt – if it really had been a question of money, if he'd wanted repayment, I would have offered. I just didn't know how to mention it without sounding, well, strange, or making you feel like you owed me something in return, and then it turned out not to matter.' He gulped, absurdly vulnerable. 'This doesn't change anything, does it? How you see me? Only, when people used to know I had money, their behaviour changed, and I don't want that to happen –'

'Never,' said Dean, and shut him up with a kiss, pressing himself to Cas's chest as firmly as his injuries would allow. His hand sneaked under Cas's shirt and stroked his side, up and down, until Cas gasped into his mouth and trapped Dean's thigh between his legs. They pushed against each other, hands teasing and grasping, and as his pain increased along with his arousal, Dean moaned and pulled away.

'Goddamit,' he said, flushed and aching, his lust reflected in Cas's eyes. 'I need to get better, like,  _now_ .' 

'It is becoming an issue,' Cas admitted, running a hand possessively over Dean's chest. 'I want you.' He kissed his throat. 'All of you.' He kissed his ear, and whispered, 'I want to make love to you, I want to fuck you in every way I know how, I want you inside me, I want to be inside you, I want –' he reached down, stroking Dean through his boxers, '– I want you, I need you, I love you, Dean, I love you, I love you –'

'Cas,' Dean moaned, fumbling with his lover's jeans, 'god, Cas, I love you so much –'

Their mouths met, panting and passionate, and Cas took hold of Dean's cock just a half-second before Dean grabbed his, and they were stroking each other, each needing more than the other was, at that precise moment, capable of giving, yet desperate for what they could still have.

'Wait,' Dean gasped, and Cas stopped instantly, panting like he'd run a marathon.

'Did I hurt you?'

'No, I just –' god, he couldn't believe he was saying this, '– I think we should wait.'

'Until you're better, you mean?'

'Yeah.' He bit his lip. 'Is that... is that OK?'

Cas kissed his nose and smiled. 'Of course.' And then he groaned, as though unable to help himself. 'Oh, god. Now you  _really_ need to hurry up and heal.' 

'Believe me,' said Dean, fervent as Cas flopped back beside him, 'I'm trying. Which is why we need to stop. I mean, god, I just want to do everything with you right now, and it could kill me, and I honestly don't think I'd notice. Or if I did, I wouldn't care. But the next time I'm with you, I don't want either of us have to to hold back, because that's what we're doing right now, and it's driving me crazy.'

'You and me both,' said Cas.

They lay there quietly, trying to cool off, which was about as easy as swimming through jam.

'Dean?' Cas asked, after a moment.

'Yeah?'

'When you say you want to wait, what does that rule out, exactly? I mean, besides the obvious.'

Dean turned his head, a slight smile playing on his lips. 'Are you asking if we can still make out?'

'That's what I was getting at, yes.'

He laughed, delighted by Cas's seriousness, and pretended to give the matter deep consideration. 'I  _guess_ ,' he said, feigning reluctance. 'But no roaming hands, you hussy. I'm saving second base for my wedding night.'

Cas's eyes were blue as twilight. 'I would, you know. If you wanted to.'

'Would what?'

'Marry you.'

Dean sucked in breath, a sudden dizziness rushing through him like stars. 'Was that a proposal?'

Cas laughed softly. 'I don't know. Let's call it an overture to one. We are, after all, still waiting.'

'Right,' said Dean, heart pounding. 'Waiting. Yeah.'

He looked at Cas, at the sheer beauty of him, and wondered how the hell he was going to survive the next few weeks.

'I'm hungry,' Cas announced suddenly. He leaned back on his elbows, grinning like a puppy. 'You want me to make us some eggs? I'm going to make us some eggs.'

And before Dean could answer, he leapt up and headed out to the kitchen, calling out over his shoulder about organising their road trip.

Dean's smile was so wide, he didn't see how it could fit on his face.  _Like this,_ he thought, joyfully.  _I'll survive like this._

 

 


	30. Chapter 30

In the weeks leading up to Cas and Dean's road trip, Anna settled into a routine. Reassured that her employment prospects at Impala Records were long rather than short term, she formally quit Well Bread and set her mind to improving the record store, with Dean's blessing. Unlike him – and, apparently, unlike the store's previous owner – she had enough experience working in retail, and enough of a native eye for structure, to see the faults in the layout. She moved shelves and repositioned displays, trying to find the best fit for the space; but when Dean finally let slip that Castiel was, indeed, independently wealthy, a whole new range of possibilities opened up.

She hadn't spoken to Gabe since that night in the taxi, except to reply to his text messages – which, she was delighted to note, had become both respectful and flirtatious. Though she'd briefly entertained the prospect of ignoring him forever, he seemed so genuinely repentant – and was, damn his eyes, sufficiently attractive and funny – that she'd decided to give him another chance. Not that he knew it, of course; he deserved some measure of coolness from her after his initial bad behaviour, and her replies thus far had been more polite than heartfelt. Now, though, as her new idea began to take shape, she broke her self-imposed rule about being the one to initiate contact, and sent him a message.

_Feel like working on a design project with me?_

His response was instantaneous:  _where & when?_

Grinning, Anna let a few minutes go by before responding.  _Come by the store at 5. We can talk._

Her phone beeped moments later.  _See you then :)_

Satisfied, she checked the clock – it was nearly lunch time – and was on the verge of heading next door when Charlie entered, saving her the trouble.

'Lunch?' she asked.

'Lunch,' Anna agreed.

Her friend cocked a thumb at the ceiling. 'Any word from upstairs?'

'Not in the last hour or so. Why?'

'Nothing. I just thought I heard banging, is all.'

Anna raised her eyebrows. ' _Banging_ banging, or just a loud noise?'

Charlie considered the question. 'Probably just a noise,' she admitted. 'I mean, if they finally decided to, you know, it'd probably be a lot louder.' She hesitated, then said in a rush, 'Do you really think they're in love?'

'What?'

Charlie looked embarrassed. 'Well, it's just, you read these stories about how people form super intense connections in high-pressure situations and they  _think_ it's love, but then it doesn't last afterwards, and they're both so nice, and they're neighbours, and I really don't want them to break up, but this whole time they've been together things have been kind of, well, insane, and now that it's starting to settle down, I keep worrying it's going to go wrong, and I know it's not my business, but they're sort of our bosses and they're your friends and it makes me anxious, and, well. You get the idea.'

Anna thought back over the past two weeks, and said, 'You've never really seen them together, have you? I mean, you've met them both, but not as a couple?'

'I guess,' said Charlie, then blinked. 'Actually, yeah. You're right. I haven't.'

'Well, then. That explains it.'

'Explains what?'

'The doubt. You haven't seen the way they look at each other.'

Charlie made a face. 'All couples look at each other.'

'Yeah, but –' Anna paused, trying to explain. 'OK. My mother is a photographer. She takes wedding pictures, mostly – shoots with families, with couples, domestic occasion stuff. And for years, I used to help out. I'd carry her equipment, help stage the shots, that sort of thing, right up until the end of school. I think she was hoping I'd take after her, want to go into business, and I liked it fine, but it wasn't what I wanted for a career, you know? Anyway.' She waved a hand at the segue. 'The point being, when you do that sort of work, you see a lot of happy couples, or couples who are meant to be happy, and after a while, you kind of get a feel for which ones are really solid. It sounds corny, but it's kind of alchemical – just something in how they move together, how they look at each other, how they talk. I'm not saying everyone needs it to be happy, but it sure as hell helps.'

Charlie gave her a doubtful look. 'And Cas and Dean have it?'

Anna's reply was forestalled by a sudden shout from the stairwell.

'Dean, be careful!'

'Dammit, Cas, I'm fine!'

There was a thumping sound. Both women turned, watching as a barefoot, bare-chested Dean Winchester came downstairs, his palms braced against the walls. Except for a small patch over his bullet-wound, he was now bandage-free: the strips on his stomach were thickly scabbed, while the cigarette burns and the cuts on his arms had turned to fresh, pink scars. He was sweating with the effort of walking unassisted, but though Cas hovered protectively behind him, he didn't intervene. There was a horrible moment when Dean's hand slipped on his weak side, and Anna almost lunged forwards, convinced he was about to fall, but he somehow caught himself and kept going, alighting with a grin of triumph.

'There!' he said, chest heaving only slightly. 'I am officially handi-capable.'

'And your side's OK?' asked Cas concernedly, running his fingers down Dean's ribs to the gauze – missing, though Anna and Charlie did not, the way his touch shivered his lover. 'You haven't pulled it open?'

'No,' said Dean, voice only a little hoarse. 'I mean, I might need a bit of help getting back up again, but otherwise –'

Cas kissed him before he could finish, and Anna blushed to the roots of her hair, because even though they didn't grab each other, or draw it out beyond a few moments, the gentle intimacy between them – Dean leaning into Cas; the way Cas touched his jaw – made her feel as though she'd caught them in bed together. And when they pulled apart, smiling at each other, there it was: the look she'd tried and failed to describe to Charlie, love in their eyes and the air between them, soft and electric and so self-contained, they were practically wrapped in a bubble.

'Nearly better,' Dean said breathlessly.

'Nearly better,' Cas agreed.

And only then did they seem to realise they had an audience; they looked at Anna and Charlie, and Dean waved, and Cas said, 'How are you both?'

For the next few minutes, they all talked about the stores, the news, the weather. Anna invited them both to lunch, but Dean shook his head, saying, a little sheepishly, 'I think I might need to lie down,' and suddenly Cas was looping a careful arm around his waist, muttering fond imprecations as he helped Dean back upstairs.

Charlie watched them go, open-mouthed. 'Oh,' she said. 'Is that what you were talking about?'

'Yeah,' said Anna. She felt an unexpected pang, and then her heart sped up at the thought – completely unbidden – that Gabe might look at her that way, too. One day.  _If he ever pulls his head the whole way out of his ass._ 'Yeah, it is.'

'Then I totally get it. They're like –' she tilted her head, considering, '– I don't know, I'm not not good with metaphors. But you're right. You know it when you see it.'

'You really do,' said Anna, grinning.

And then they went to lunch, and all was right with the world.

 

*

 

Three and a half weeks after Lassiter shot him, Dean eased himself into the Impala, rolling his eyes as Cas asked, for the fiftieth time that morning, whether he was sure he wanted to drive the first leg of the road trip.

'You'll use more energy in the city,' Cas pointed out, dumping a bag in the back seat. 'More gear changes, more breaking, more corrections.'

'Will you quit fussing already?' Dean said, outwardly exasperated and inwardly delighted. He'd gone his whole life without anyone taking an interest in his well-being, and as much as he loved the banter of pushing back against Cas's concern, he also loved that it  _was_ concern, and real, and for him. 'I'm driving, you're passengering, and that's final.'

'I love it when you take charge,' said Cas, grinning, and sat without a further word of protest.

Gingerly, Dean buckled up. The last of his scabs were finally, thankfully, gone, but the new skin beneath was sensitive, and he didn't know how they'd fare against the belt. But though he braced for discomfort, there was none, and he heaved a small sigh of relief.

'Call when you've arrived,' said Anna. She stood on the pavement, arms wrapped around her torso, and bent to the rolled-down window. 'Otherwise, I'll worry.'

'You always worry,' said Dean, but he didn't mind that, either.

'True,' she said – and then, with a mischevious look, 'You know my friend, Gabe?'

Dean raised a suggestive eyebrow. 'Your  _friend_ ?'

Anna blushed. 'Oh, shut up. Anyway, he's studying design, and while the two of you are gone, we're going to be working on something for the store. A surprise, for when you get back.'

'Thank you,' Dean said, touched.

Anna leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. 'You're welcome.' She straightened, and wiggled her fingers in farewell at the both of them, which gesture Cas returned, while Dean contented himself with a thumbs up.

And then he turned the key in the ignition, and they were off.

Despite his protestations, he'd been worried the driving would tax him – pottering about at home was one thing, but driving for hours on end was quite another. It would take four days to reach Sam in California, and that meant he had to pace himself. But though he was aware of his body, of the heavy steering and sticky gears, the exertion energised rather than drained him. It felt good to be doing something again, and there were few places he felt more comfortable and at home than behind the wheel of his car. Any other day, the stop-start traffic heading out of Monument would have annoyed him, but today, he couldn't stop smiling.

Beside him, Cas reached over and started fiddling with his iPod, linking it up to the car speakers through a converter cable. At Dean's inquiring glance, he blushed and said, 'I, ah, made us a driving playlist.'

The opening chords of Life is a Highway filled the car. Dean looked at Cas with frank surprise.

'A driving playlist?'

If possible, Cas's blush deepened. 'If it's not any good, we can –'

They were stopped at a set of lights, so Dean had no hesitation in leaning over to kiss his cheek. 'It's perfect.'

The list was a mix of Dean's favourite songs and some he suspected Anna had helped pick out, but which he nonetheless enjoyed. Better still, and for all that he'd once professed musical ignorance, Cas sang along to a surprising number of tracks, haltingly at first, but his voice grew stronger as Dean joined in, too, and before long they were cruising down the interstate, belting out the lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody. When the song came to an end, they both burst out laughing, and as he looked at Cas, Dean felt his heart catch in his throat. Gone was the awkward hunching and uncertainty, the visible self doubt. Cas was comfortable and confident, eyes crinkling with happiness, one elbow resting on the open window. Long gone, too, was his anonymous suit and tie, today replaced by one of Dean's many AC/DC t-shirts worn over a dark blue Henley and black jeans. He looked vital and gorgeous, and when he smiled back at Dean, it was difficult to remember how to breathe.

'How's the driving feel?' Cas asked.

Dean gulped, trying to ignore the rising heat in his body. Since the day he'd told Cas he wanted to wait, he hadn't so much as brought himself off, partly because of his injuries, but mostly because it would have felt like cheating, and after weeks of abstinence, he was having trouble separating tenderness from lust.  _Everything_ felt sensitive, scars and unmarked skin both, and whenever Cas touched him – or looked at him, even – his all-over sense of bodily intensity was magnified a hundredfold. 

'Fine, I think,' he said, forcing himself to consider the question. 'I mean, I can feel it in my muscles, but in a nice way, you know? Like exercise.'

'Well, good. But if you want to swap over early –'

'– I'll let you know. And I will, Cas. I promise.'

But in the end, he managed it: they took a break after three hours, grabbed some lunch at a diner somewhere near Pittsburgh, and then resumed with Cas behind the wheel. Apart from the photo Anna had taken, it was the first time Dean had seen his lover drive the Impala, and he was so turned on by the sight, he forgot to issue the usual warnings about how to treat the car. Which was no big loss, it turned out, as Cas seemed to know exactly what he was doing. He gave the dashboard a friendly pat, turned the key, and didn't stick so much as a single gear change, guiding them back onto the road as easily as if he'd never driven anything else. Unable to help himself, Dean groaned low in the back of his throat, though Born to be Wild was playing so loudly, it was doubtful Cas heard him.

They switched over again near Columbus, but though Dean had originally planned to drive the last leg himself, when it started to bucket down rain, he asked Cas to take over. As confident a driver as he was under normal circumstances – and as good as he was feeling – he still didn't want to risk not being able to control the car if they hit a puddle and fishtailed. It kept on raining the rest of the way across Ohio and into Indiana, and didn't let up until they were practically in Indianapolis, where Cas had booked them a room for the night in an actual hotel. Dean was childishly excited about that; he'd stayed in plenty of motels and cheap, scuzzy places, but Cas had shown him photos of their destination, and it was all big white towels and blankets that looked like woven gold.

'Does this make me your kept man?' he'd asked, when Cas made the booking. 'Because if so, I am totally cool with that.'

Cas smiled slyly. 'Generally speaking, kept men pay their way with sexual favours. But under the circumstances, you can just sit there and look pretty.'

At the time, Dean had laughed. Now, though, with the engine vibrating through the seat, a clear evening sky ahead of them and the ruffling breeze from the open windows making a mess of Cas's hair as well as his own, it was a different story. The arousal he'd felt earlier was nothing compared to what he felt now, and even though they were nearly at the hotel, as they drove past an open field, he couldn't help fantasising about Cas just pulling over, yanking Dean out of the passenger's seat and pushing him up onto the bonnet, grabbing him close as he wrapped his legs around his waist and –

He gripped the seat, staring out at the highway, and tried to still his pulse against a realisation that was all the more urgent for being belated. Discreetly, he ran a hand across his stomach, fingers probing the edges of his injuries. The new skin where Meg had stripped him was taut, but not sore, and when he pressed the stippled, wonky star where the bullet had hit, there was no more pain than if he'd been pushing a bruise. He swallowed sharply – his throat was long since healed – and let his hand wander upwards, lightly touching the lines on his arm, the circular cigarette scars. They no longer hurt, and for the first time, it occurred to him that each burn commemorated a place where Cas had kissed him, Cas had bitten him. Meg had left her marks as a punishment, but as he glanced at his face and throat in the rear view mirror, all he saw was a guide for Cas's mouth to follow, and at the thought of his lover reclaiming him, he became almost painfully hard.

'Cas?' he said, voice shaking a little.

'Yeah?'

'I'm better.'

'You're –' Cas almost swerved the car off the road, correcting himself just before they hit the hard shoulder. 'Shit!' And then, glancing at Dean more carefully, 'Better as in  _better_ ?'

'Yeah.'

Cas opened his mouth. Closed it again. Glanced at the GPS he'd mounted on the dash, and noted the twenty-five minutes remaining until they reached the hotel. 'You're sure? You're really –'

'I'm really sure,' said Dean. He was breathing hard, hypnotised by the muscle working in Cas's jaw, the way he suddenly gripped the wheel like his life depended on it. The silence stretched for two seconds. Three. Then:

' _Fuck._ ' Cas groaned, hitting the accelerator. 'Oh, god. Fuck.  _Fuck_ !'

' _Drive_ ,' said Dean. 'Don't talk. Just drive.'

 

*

 

Reaching the hotel was one thing; actually getting into their room, Cas realised, was another. Pulling up in front of the building, a valet arrived to take the Impala to an underground garage while a porter grabbed their bags, and it was a sign of how distracted Dean was that he didn't so much as protest. Cas, for his part, could barely think straight; he checked them in on autopilot, trying desperately not to groan in public as Dean slid an arm around his waist, smiling politely as he took their room key, following the porter into the lift, up five floors, and along a seemingly endless corridor to their suite. At the door, he pulled his wallet out, grabbed the first note he found there, which was a fifty, and shoved it into the porter's hand the second their bags were inside. The man looked stunned, and even moreso when Cas shut the door in his face without another word.

And then they were grabbing each other, kissing hungrily. Cas shoved Dean up against the door and sucked his bottom lip until they were both moaning, grinding against each other, hands under shirts and roaming without hindrance. Cas pinched his lover's nipples and bit his neck, whining deep in his throat as Dean's fingers chased up his back, nails digging into his shoulders.

' _Jesus fuck_ ,' Dean gasped, as Cas ripped his shirt up over his head, 'tell me you know where the fucking lube is, tell me you packed it –' 

'I do. I did,' Cas growled, sucking the sensitive skin below Dean's ear. 'Soon.'

'Screw soon.' Dean grabbed the hem of Cas's shirt, shoving him backwards as he pulled it off, then dropping to his knees as he bit and kissed his way down Cas's stomach, pulling his jeans open and down and taking him in his mouth. He swallowed him deep, tongue working sinfully, then pulled back and said, ' _Now_ .'

Cas shoved his finger's through Dean's hair, gripping and pulling him upright, mouths melting together, one hand working at his fly as the other held his head. They were stumbling through the room, an awkward dance as they kicked their shoes off – each tugged at the other's jeans, shedding pants, socks and boxers almost at once – and suddenly they were naked, falling backwards onto the bed with Dean above and Cas beneath. Gripping his lover's arms, Cas rolled them over, pinning Dean with his hands and mouth. Dean bucked his hips; they were pressed together, hard and aching and slick with spit and precum, and as Cas reached down and stroked him, Dean pushed his head back into the mattress, biting his lip as he moaned.

Cas leaned back a little, savouring the sight of Dean spread out beneath him, then put his mouth to his lover's ear and whispered, 'I'm going to take my time with you.'

Dean whimpered. 'Oh god, Cas, baby, please, I need you, I need you to do it  _now_ , I can't –' Cas kissed him, hard and hot, his body arching into Dean's; he curled his hand at the root of him, his touch sliding up and down, thumbing gently at his foreskin – and then he let go, his fingers tracing up to tweak his nipple. Dean shuddered beneath him, gasping into his mouth, and Cas was so hard, it was almost impossible to keep control of himself. Dean reached up to cup his face, those clever fingers sliding from jaw to collarbone, every touch begging him closer, his whole body writhing up against Cas with an almost insatiable urgency. Cas trailed his lips down the column of Dean's throat, biting at his pulse-point, sucking his nipples, peppering him with kisses, down to take him in his mouth. He groaned at the taste of him, at the way Dean wantonly arched his back and fucked his mouth, hands digging into Cas's hair as he writhed and begged. He was incoherent with pleasure, the words reduced to little more than a string of gasps, voice hitching with every motion of Cas's tongue. 

'Fuck me Cas god please fuck me I need you I need to feel you please, oh, fuck, yes, I –' He tapered off into panting, and as before, Cas chose that moment to stop, to pull back, as much because he was in danger of coming as because he wanted, needed to stretch this out, this moment he'd been dreaming of for what felt like forever, and which he never wanted to end. But the look in Dean's eyes as he sat up, straddling him – the lust, the love, the tilted curve of his throat, lips parted in a wordless plea – almost undid everything. God, he just wanted to bury himself in him, over and over, and –

Dean reached up and took hold of him, stroking hard and fast up Cas's shaft. The effect was electric: Cas let out a sound he hadn't even realised he was capable of making, and suddenly Dean was sitting up under him, one arm wrapped around his waist as Cas dug his fingers into Dean's back, head bowed over his collarbone as he bit and sucked his throat. Dean shifted slightly, changing his grip, and suddenly he was gripping both their cocks together, panting as he pumped. They were slick in his fist, and then he was nipping at Cas's jaw, up to the lobe and around the shell of his ear, whispering  _please_ between each bite, and Cas couldn't take it any more. 

'OK,' he moaned. 'I'll get – I'll – ah, fuck – lie back, wait –' and somehow managed to extricate himself and stumble over to his bag, upending the contents as he searched for – and, mercifully, found – the lube. He turned back, struggling to get his breathing under control, but Dean had risen and followed him, and as his lover slipped his arms around his waist, kissing him deeply, he realised he was lost. He pushed Dean over to the bed again, but this time, Cas turned at the last moment and sat first, pulling his lover after him. He lay back, supported by the pillows, and guided Dean to straddle him, squeezing the lube onto his fingers.

'Oh,' said Dean, eyes widening as he realised what Cas wanted. He spread his stance, breathing hard, and groaned as Cas reached under and slipped first one finger into him, then two, wriggling as Cas slicked himself with his other hand. Dean pressed down against his fingers, but Cas couldn't wait; he pulled them out, guided Dean forwards, gripped his hips with both hands, and thrust his cock up into him.

'Oh,  _fuck_ ,' Dean whispered. He leaned forwards, gripping the headboard, and started to roll his hips in time to the guidance of Cas's hands, shuddering all over when Cas let go on one side in favour of stroking his shaft. They were both gasping, both so close to the edge, it seemed impossible they hadn't already tipped over. Dean shut his eyes, but when Cas rasped out, 'Look at me!', they snapped back open, green as emeralds. They stared into each other, sweating and desperate; Cas began thrusting his hips, pulling Dean onto him, deep and hot and tight.

'Cas,' Dean moaned. 'Cas, Cas, Cas, oh, fuck –' He was trembling, every muscle tense; Cas arched his back and cried Dean's name, and suddenly they were both coming at once, Dean spasming around him as Cas bucked and gasped. Raising his hand, he licked it clean of what Dean had spilt, savouring the look of wide-eyed ecstasy on his lover's face. And then Dean slipped free of him, stretching out along Cas's length, and kissed him deeply, still grinding up against him in the aftermath of his climax. Impossibly, they were both still semi-hard, and as he pulled Dean down beside him, Cas couldn't stop stroking his sides, his hips, fingers running over his scars as though he could erase them.

'God, I love you,' Dean whispered, curling one hand against the curve of Cas's neck, thumb stroking his Adam's apple.

'I love you, too.' He leaned in, kissing Dean back against the pillows, feeling both their bodies respond, and murmured, 'And I've got all night to prove it.'

Dean shivered against him. 'You do?'

'Let's put it this way,' said Cas, and paused to suck the edge of his jaw, a slow, languid bite that not only left Dean gasping, but rendered both of them almost as hard as they'd been a minute earlier. 'Until or unless you tell me to stop –' he moved his mouth to his earlobe, '– I won't. We have all night. I plan to use it.'

'You're going to kill me,' Dean breathed, but as Cas bit him again, he arched his body up, needy as ever. 'God, but at least I'll die happy.'

'Tell me what to do,' Cas whispered, reaching down to stroke him. They were both already messy as hell, slicked with semen and spit and lube, and were only going to get messier. 'Tell me what you want.'

Dean didn't hesitate. 'Fuck me,' he said, hoarse with need. 'Don't stop.'

'I won't,' Cas promised, smiling.

And he didn't.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from the con and writing again! And - surprise! - it turns out this wasn't the final chapter, after all. I'd say there's two more at maximum to go; I hope you'll all stick around for the ending!


	31. Chapter 31

It was, by an order of magnitude, the best night of Dean's life.

He lost count of how many times he and Cas made love somewhere after the third, when they availed themselves of the shower and, predictably, came out dirtier than when they'd gone in. Afterwards, they tried to dry off, and he wound up first blowing, then fucking Cas against the bathroom wall, his moans echoing against the tiles. They were both inexhaustible, pent up from weeks of waiting – and, Dean realised, from the fact that they'd never had sex before when one or both of them wasn't injured. Every time he thought they were finished, something would set them off again, the simplest touch transmuted into fireworks. It wasn't until nearly 2am that they realised they were starving and ordered room service, but the food took long enough to arrive that, by the time the waiter knocked on the door, Dean was spread-eagled beneath Cas, hands gripping the blankets and damn near blacking out from pleasure as he thrust his hips up and back. It was Cas, ragged and gasping, who called out to just leave the tray, his voice half-muffled against Dean's shoulder, and it ought to have been embarrassing, except that Cas chose that moment to alter his rhythm, and any self-consciousness Dean had vanished as he groaned and shuddered to (yet another) climax.

When, minutes later, Cas wrapped a towel around his hips and went to get the food – they'd ordered burgers, which were miraculously still warm – Dean came back to himself for long enough to sit up and realise what the place looked like; hell, what  _they_ looked like. Because as messy as the room was, strewn with the contents of Cas's bag, sticky sheets and wet towels, it was nothing compared to the marks they'd made on each other. Both of them were bruised, scratched and so thoroughly lovebitten, it was like they'd caught a peculiar type of plague. God, there were purpling hickies on Cas's lower back he didn't remember making at all, any more than he recalled Cas biting his hip hard enough for individual teeth to leave their indents, and yet it had clearly happened. 

'Holy fuck,' Dean breathed. He sat up, propped against the pillows, not quite able to believe it.

'What?' said Cas, bringing the tray over – and then his eyes widened, too. 'Oh.  _Oh_ .' He shoved the food aside at the end of the bed, hands running concernedly over Dean's arms. 'Jesus, you're bleeding.'

'I am?' He ran a wondering hand over Cas's collarbone. 'Shit. You are, too.'

'I – what? Where? I can't see it.'

Which lead to them stumbling into the bathroom, using the big double-mirrors to survey the extent of the damage. Cas's nails had raked Dean's arms, hips and back, while Dean, in turn, had scratched Cas's chest and shoulders.

‘Fuck,’ Dean said again.

Cas was blushing furiously. ‘I, ah, may have gotten carried away.’

‘If you did, so did I.’ He stepped close, kissing the edge of his jaw, until Cas was trembling against him. ‘Don’t you dare feel guilty about this. Don’t you dare.’

‘I don’t,’ said Cas, gentle fingers retracing the marks he’d made in passion. ‘I've just never... lovebites, sure, but this is more than I've ever –'

'Me, too.'

'And it's... it's OK?' Cas's tone was urgent. 'You asked me once not to hurt you, and I don't know if this qualifies.'

'It doesn't,' Dean said, stroking Cas's cheek. 'You've done nothing I didn't want, or that I haven't done to you, either.' He kissed him, smiling. 'We're good. Now come eat dinner.'

The burgers were surprisingly tasty, though not a patch on proper roadhouse fare. They washed them down with a tiny bottle of minibar booze apiece, and then lay back on the cleanest patch of linen, Dean curled up in Cas’s arms, head pillowed on his chest.

‘We could stay an extra day,’ he murmured. ‘Ring Sam, tell him we’re running late, that the car got a flat or something. He’d understand.’

Cas shifted slightly, looking down at him. ‘You really want to do that?’

Dean traced a finger along Cas’s ribs, delighting in the shiver this produced. ‘Honestly, I don’t think I ever want to leave this room again. Or this bed, even.’

‘I don’t know. That could get pretty messy.’

‘Hasn’t it already?’

‘Fair point.’ Cas made a show of considering. ‘Well, I don’t think I could afford to buy the whole hotel, but the room is definitely within budget. We’d have quite the commute to Monument, though.’

Dean nuzzled Cas’s chest, trailing kisses up the marked skin as he rolled on top of him. ‘Move in with me, then.’

Cas chuckled. ‘Sure. Your flat or mine?’

‘Neither.’ He kissed the side of his mouth. ‘Let’s get a new place when we get back. Somewhere just ours, close to the stores, but with a yard. I’ve never had a yard before.’

‘OK.’ Cas propped himself on his elbows. ‘A new place with a yard it is. Any other requests?’

‘Just be with me. That's all I want.'

‘I will be. I am,’ said Cas, his hands stroking sensual patterns up Dean's sides. 'Always.'

And then they were kissing again, a slow, languid passion that steadily built into tense arousal, until Dean was once more reduced to gasping Cas's name like a prayer as his lover laid him down and, with sweet inevitability, brought them both over the edge.

When Dean woke up the next morning, he was sprawled on his stomach, one arm outflung across Cas’s chest. He ached everywhere, but in all the right ways, and he didn’t think he’d ever tire of the novelty of waking up next to Cas; of leaning over, as he did now, and whispering, ‘I love you,’ into his ear, until he stirred and murmured, ‘I love you, too,’ and pulled him down for a morning kiss.

Which, predictably, soon turned into more than that; but even so, and despite their late start, they didn’t stay the extra day. As heavy and sore and sated as he felt, Dean also wanted to keep going, revelling in his returning strength; and besides which, he didn't want to lie to Sam. They traded off the driving again, and made it to Lexington only a few hours after they’d originally planned. They didn't make quite as much of a mess in that hotel – or the one the next night, in Salt Lake City – as they had in Indianapolis, but they still came surprisingly close. Even with their respective staminas returned to something approximating normal levels, they still couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and by the time they finally made it to California and Stanford, the scratches, bites and bruises of the first night, though diminished, had been joined by many others.

As Cas navigated the Impala through a maze of residential streets leading up to Sam and Jess’s place, Dean worried the collar of his shirt, trying to find a way to cover his bites that didn’t actually involve buying a turtleneck. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have cared, but he hadn’t seen Sam in months, and for perhaps the first time in their adult lives, they had a lot to talk about. Showing up covered in hickies, accompanied by a lover who was just as badly marked, didn’t exactly seem like the best way to make a good impression; but as he didn’t have a choice, he'd just have to make the best of it.

‘We’re here, I think,’ said Cas, suddenly.

‘Huh? Where?’

‘There.’ Cas pulled over, pointing across the street. Dean blinked, taking in the sight of a two-storey wooden house newly painted white, its brightly lit windows glowing gold against the evening grey. It looked suburban, safe; even welcoming. And yet, he felt abruptly nervous, his stomach churning as he contemplated seeing his brother. Of necessity, he’d spoken to Sam while organising the trip, but always briefly, never touching on the revelations made in that first, more eventful call: that the father who’d loved and supported one brother had beaten, abused and belittled the other. After a lifetime’s worth of lying, Dean had revealed the truth almost by accident, too tired and hurt – and, just as likely, stoned on pain medication – to keep up the pretence, and even though weeks had passed since then, he somehow didn’t think Sam was going to let it all slide.

Sensing his nervousness, Cas squeezed his hand. ‘You’ll be fine, Dean. I promise.’

Dean gulped. ‘It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s Sam. I dumped a hell of a lot on him, and he might be – well. This could be pretty awkward.’ He gripped the seat. ‘He’s going to be so pissed at me, Cas. He’s right to be pissed at me.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Cas thumbed a comforting circle in Dean’s palm. ‘He’s allowed to be upset, but you haven’t done anything wrong, either.’

Dean stared at the house, drymouthed. ‘I don’t think I can do this.’

‘You can.’ Cas kissed his hand – palm, wrist, knuckles – then said, ‘But just in case, we’ll use a stoplight system. If you want a change of topic, say green. If you want to leave the room, say yellow. If you want to leave the house all together, say red. Whatever you need, I’ll make an excuse, I’ll feed you a straight line, whatever. But I’m here for you, OK? And anyway, he’s your brother. You’re going to be fine.’

A lump rose in Dean’s throat. ‘Thanks, Cas.’

Cas smiled and kissed him, and for a moment, they melted together. Dean felt his body respond, and groaned as he realised he couldn’t just take Cas straight up to bed, as every part of him wanted to. Pulling back, he said, ‘We’ll have to behave ourselves tonight.’

Cas smiled mischievously. ‘At the table? Not a problem. Afterwards, though –’ he kissed Dean’s neck, lips grazing one of the more prominent lovebites, shivering him, ‘– I’m not making any promises.’

‘Uh,’ said Dean. He’d been going to say, _we’re not having sex in my brother’s house_ , but couldn’t get the sentence out, because goddamn, did he want to have sex with Cas in his brother's house. Or, well, not _specifically_ his brother's house, but all things being equal, if it was the only alternative, he was ready and willing to take it, fraternal etiquette be damned. ‘We’ll see,’ he managed.

‘I live to serve.’ Cas kissed him again, then got out and started grabbing their bags. ‘Come on, then. We can’t just sit out here all night.’

‘Pity,’ Dean muttered, but though he still felt anxious, he made himself follow.

There was a porch at the front of Sam’s house, and as they climbed up the shallow steps, a motion sensor light came on. From inside, Dean could hear the faint sounds of music, and even before he pressed the bell, he could hear footsteps coming towards the door. He sucked in breath, bracing himself, and suddenly, there was Sam. His brother was as lanky, floppy-haired and unflappable as ever, smiling that same, quiet, self-contained smile that could mean any one of a dozen different things, depending on his mood. Dean fought the urge to shuffle his feet and said, ‘Hey, Sammy.’

‘Hey, Dean.’ Sam tilted his head, smile broadening incrementally. ‘What, no hug?’

‘I wasn’t sure you –’ Dean began, but stopped when Sam really did hug him, a brief, friendly squeeze that ended with a pat on the back. Dean reciprocated as best he could – he still had a bag under one arm – but if Sam noticed the awkwardness, he didn’t show it. Instead, he stepped back, scrutinising Cas, who was waiting patiently off to one side. An expression of clear surprise crossed Sam’s face: whatever he’d been expecting his brother’s lover to look like, Castiel Novak clearly wasn’t it, though whether that was a good or a bad thing in his eyes remained to be seen.

‘You’re Cas?’ he asked, holding out a hand.

‘And you’re Sam,’ said Cas, taking it. Grinning, and with a playful boldness Dean adored, he added, ‘I guess I’m not what you pictured.’

Sam had the grace to look abashed. ‘Honestly, I’m not sure what I thought you looked like. This is all pretty new to me, you know? But come in!’ He stepped back, waving them both down the hall. ‘Jess is just getting dinner ready.’

Cas flashed Dean an encouraging look, and somehow, he was able to cross the threshold.

 

*

 

If Cas wasn’t what Sam Winchester had been expecting, then neither was Sam as Cas had imagined, either. For one thing, Dean had neglected to mention how stupidly tall his brother was: Sam had to top out at 6’4, maybe even 6’5, though still with Dean’s broad shoulders and narrow hips. With his floppy brown hair, old jeans and plaid shirt rolled to the elbows, he looked like a cross between a lumberjack and a hippy kid, which was an odd enough mix to be arresting in its own right. Throw in a sharp chin, expressive mouth, a delicately upturned nose and eyes the grey-green of desert plants, and his face became downright compelling – not beautiful in the same way Dean's was (or at least, not to Cas), but sharply handsome.

Far more importantly, however, he also read as a mass of contradictions. For all that he seemed friendly, going out of his way to hug Dean, who clearly hadn't been expecting it, there was something reserved about him, too, a compartmentalised subtlety that hinted at a life lived in a series of carefully labelled boxes. Inviting them to stay, Cas suspected, fell outside these parameters, setting him on edge. And like his brother, he was also tense – not overtly so, but for all their differences, Sam and Dean apparently shared enough subconscious mannerisms, like the habit of clenching and fanning their fingers, that Cas could read him clearly. Dean hadn't been wrong, back in the car: this could easily get difficult – and if it did, Cas wouldn't hesitate to intervene.

All this flashed through his thoughts in the time it took them to pass through the hall and into a well-lit kitchen, where a neatly curvaceous blonde woman – Jess – was leaning over the oven. She straightened as they entered, and when she smiled, there was nothing feigned or secretive about it.

'Dean!' she said, and rushed forward to hug him, though unlike Sam, she waited until he'd put his bag down to do so. He hugged her back shyly, and said, 'Hi, Jess. This is Cas.'

Cas smiled at her. 'Thanks for having us.'

'It's a pleasure,' Jess said, and surprised him with a hug. Cas went rigid, worrying she'd touch his back, but relaxed when she only clasped his shoulders, her small hands warm and soft.

'Well,' she said, stepping back, 'the two of you must be exhausted. Dinner's still cooking, but come through to the den, and I'll grab us some drinks while Sam takes your bags upstairs. Is beer OK?'

Dean said it was, and with that, all three men set about obeying. Jess exuded a natural, calm authority, and within moments, she had Cas and Dean settled together on a plush blue sofa, each one holding a beer, while Sam took care of their luggage.

'So, Jess,' said Dean, the telltale burr in his voice betraying his nerves, 'how's school going these days?'

'It's great.' She looked at Cas and added, 'I'm studying psychology. Like parents, like daughter.'

'Oh,' he said, and abruptly, he was nervous, too – not so much because Jess was studying psychology, but because she was clearly good at reading people, and those two things in combination weren't something he'd expected from the evening. Trying to disarm his own fears, he said, as humorously as possible, 'Are you planning to study us, then?'

Jess laughed, but with a thoughtful look in her grey eyes that suggested she'd heard the hidden half of the question. 'Only if you ask nicely,' she said – and then she hesitated, gaze flicking back to Dean. She took a deep breath and said, in a rush, 'But I do have a confession to make. Sam told me about your dad – he sort of had to, the way he was acting after you called – and, well. I'd always thought things were odd between you two – Sam would say things sometimes, about what you were like, how you grew up, and it never seemed to match with what I'd seen myself, when you were still living here. But once you told him about – about all of it, we talked it through, and a lot of things started to make sense, for both of us.' She looked uniquely uncomfortable, apologetic as she said, 'I want you to know, he's trying. He knows you had the worse deal, he really does, but it's still been hard for him, and, well –'

Dean sighed. 'And I'm the only one left to blame.'

Jess winced. 'Something like that, yeah.'

Dean might have replied, but just then, Sam returned, and Jess's entire body-language shifted like she'd flipped a switch: she sat back, smiling easily, and said, 'Hey, sweetie. Your beer's on the counter.'

'Thanks,' said Sam, and touched her shoulder in passing. He headed through to grab it, calling out over his shoulder, 'I'll give you guys the full tour later, but basically, this is it. Home sweet home.'

'It's great,' said Dean, sounding even more unsettled to Cas's ears than he had before. Discreetly, he reached across and twined their fingers together, and was rewarded when Dean gave his hand a hard squeeze. 'You guys renting or mortgaged?'

'Mortgaged,' Sam said, returning to sit beside Jess. 'Apparently, I love debt.'

'Hey,' said Dean, lifting his beer. 'It's the American dream, right?'

Sam laughed. 'I guess it is,' he said, and promptly changed the topic. 'So, Cas. You run a bookstore, is that right?'

'Next door to Dean, yeah. It's how we met.'

'Huh,' said Sam. 'That's odd. As I recall, Dean was never much of a reader.'

Clearly stung, Dean said, 'Well, Sammy, I guess there's a lot you don't know about me, isn't there?'

There was a pointed silence, during which Jess and Cas swapped worried glances, mutual concern for their partners turning them into allies. Sam smiled, wide and sharp. 'Yeah, Dean. And whose fault is that, exactly?'

Cas squeezed Dean's hand, the gesture both a comfort and a tacit reminder of what he'd said in the car. _It's OK. I'm here. If you need to go, I'll give you an out._ But either Dean didn't realise, or he didn't care; he affected his macho, punchable grin – the same one he used to wear when Cas came in to complain about his music – and said, 'Well, now. That's an interesting question, isn't it? I mean, I could just blame dad, but he's dead, and really, that's not what you want to hear. So let's just get it over with, shall we? Lay it on me. Tell me it's my fault. Tell me –' he leaned forward, tense and suddenly furious, '– exactly when, in the last five years, I should've sat you down and said, Sammy, I know you're sad dad's gone, but he used to beat the shit out of me, he hated every speck of who I was, and you fell for his bullshit so comprehensively you've spent your entire adult life thinking I was a self-sabotaging failure, but now you know the truth, so I guess it's all magically OK! Tell me! Because if there was a right time to have that conversation, a time where it would've been easier on you – or on me, for that matter – I'd really like to hear about it.'

Sam blanched, and for the first time, he let his anger show. 'Just the past  _five_ years?' he spat, incredulous. 'How about when dad was still alive, when I could've actually confronted him about it, gotten some real answers? Why not tell me then?'

'Oh, right,' Dean shot back, visibly trembling, 'because that would've made it  _so_ much better. It's not like I was terrified of the guy, or anything. It's not the one time I so much as hinted at telling you about what he did, he held my head under the bath until I almost drowned, and told me how easily he could make it look like  _accident_ .' 

Everyone went still. Cas could feel Dean's pulse in his palm, hammering wildly, and just at that moment, he didn't give a shit that Jess's mouth was hanging open in shock, that Sam looked physically sick; he'd just gotten Dean better, just brought him back to a place where things were looking OK, and he wasn't going to sit there and watch it all go hell over pre-dinner drinks. He slid closer to Dean, dropping his hand in favour of putting a tight arm around his shoulder, and glared daggers at Sam; and when his lover leaned into him, shaky and weak, and whispered, 'Yellow,' Cas pulled Dean to his feet and said, in a tone that brooked no argument, 'We're going outside for a minute.'

'Of course,' Jess stammered, 'anything, take as long as you want –'

Cas ignored her, guiding Dean back down the hall, out the front door and onto the porch, where he pulled him into his arms, hands moving in soothing circles over his back. Dean clutched his shoulders, face buried in Cas's collarbone, and shook for nearly a solid minute.

'I can't do this,' he whispered. 'Cas, I can't, I can't –'

'It's OK, love.' Cas ran a hand through his hair, gently stroking the strands, his scalp. 'You don't have to do anything you don't want to. We can stay out here as long as you need.'

Dean was close to tears. 'I never should have lied to him. When we were kids, sure, but once I was out of home, I could've... but Sammy was still there, I didn't want to do it while he was still living with dad, and then I was overseas, and I saw – oh, god, Cas, it was all so fucked up, and with Lassiter, I just – the whole world was monsters, and I didn't – I didn't want Sam to see things like I did, I didn't want him to know how bad it could be, I just thought, well, shit, at least one of us has a chance of turning out OK, you know?'

'Dean, it's not your fault. Hey. Look at me.' He put a thumb under Dean's chin and lifted his head, then used it to gently wipe his eyes. 'It's not your fault, OK? Just like –' he took a deep breath, '– just like Nevada wasn't mine, then or now.'

Dean shook his head. 'That's different, Cas. What happened to you was, was –'

'– was criminal, Dean, the same as what happened to you. It was child abuse, sustained over years, and it doesn't matter a damn that the person who hurt me wasn't my father: it should _never have happened_ , not to you and not to me. Now.' He stroked Dean's cheek, his other hand curled close around his hip. 'Whatever you want to do right now, we'll do it. We can stay, or go, or we can wait out here while you think about it, but it's your call, one hundred per cent. OK? But if you want my advice – and you might not –'

'I do,' said Dean. He leaned against Cas, eyes closed. 'Please.'

'All right, then. I think, when you're ready, we should go back inside, and try to sort this out. I'm not saying Sam wasn't out of line, or that you were wrong to say what you did, but he's your brother. But if you want to go, we'll go, no questions asked.'

Dean kissed him, wordless and soft, and said, 'All right.'

'All right what?'

'We'll go back in.' He laughed, and for a miracle, it almost sounded genuine. 'We'll... we'll have dinner. And it'll be awkward as hell, but at least it'll be honest. Or, well, sort of honest. But so help me, if he pulls that crap again, I'm done.'

'Deal.' Cas kissed his forehead. 'Do you need a minute? We can wait.'

Dean smiled crookedly. 'When did you get so damn sensible?'

'It's all Anna's influence. I think she's starting to rub off on me. But it's thanks to you, too, you know.'

'Me?' He sounded genuinely surprised. 'What did I do?'

'Everything,' Cas said, and kissed him soundly, pushing him back against the wall as he cupped his face. Dean grabbed his waist, pulling Cas closer, hands sliding up under the edge of his shirt, and for a blissful minute, nothing else in the world existed.

'Dean? Are you al– oh, shit! Sorry!'

They sprang apart just in time to see a red-faced Sam disappearing back into the house, the front swinging open behind him. Cas and Dean looked at each other, paused, and burst out laughing.

'Oh, man.' Dean grinned. 'The last time he walked in on me, I was half-naked with Alicia McKenzie. He freaked out so bad, he ran into the door. Gave himself a hell of a black eye, too.' The memory seemed to settle something within him; he sighed, and rolled his eyes in a _siblings, what-can-you-do-with-them_ sort of way, and said. 'Come on. We might as well try again.'

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Augh! I have so much Sam/Dean/Cas stuff I want to show, and so little space left to do it in! Apparently I am very bad at estimating future chapter lengths. But I swear we're nearly there!


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mentions of child abuse. 
> 
> Nearly there, guys! :)

On a scale of one to ten, Dean decided, where one was total comfort and ten was a state of hellish anxiety, the subsequent dinner with Sam and Jess was a solid five. After a mumbled apology in the hallway, Sam didn't mention their dad again: the whole thing became an untopic, and while that was stressful on one level, the knowledge of everything they'd have to say eventually hovering over the meal like a vulture, it also gave Dean precious time to recover, to pretend to a sense of normalcy he couldn't quite feel, but which he badly needed. He sat as close to Cas as the seating arrangements would allow, their legs brushing under the table, and focussed on the actual food – which was, in fairness, excellent. Jess had always been a good cook, and Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd had a real roast; though once he and Cas were home, it seemed like the sort of thing he'd like to try his hand at making, too.

Bravely, he said as much to Jess, who expressed enthusiasm at the prospect, even offering to email him a list of pointers. Sam, for his part, kept strictly to neutral topics – or tried to, anyway. The most fiercely awkward moment came during desert, when, all unknowing, he brought up the topic of the Fellowship siege. It wasn't an unreasonable thing to have done – after all, Nevada was close by, and it was still big news – but Cas choked on his food, and Dean shot instantly to his feet, gripping his lover's shoulder. The conversation ground to a halt, and as Cas waved a hand and said, around his coughing, 'I'm fine,' Dean sat again, heart pounding. He reached for Cas under the table, squeezing his leg.

'Do you want some water?' Jess asked, anxiously. Almost, Dean felt sorry for her: he'd always liked Jess, and she'd gone to so much trouble over the evening, only to have it ruined by the Winchester effect.

'No, I'm all right.' Cas made a show of swallowing. 'I just, ah – that was a bit unexpected.' He hesitated, leaning his knee against Dean's, then said, 'The woman who was shot on TV, coming out of the compound? That was my mother. The children with her are my half-siblings. That's who we're going to see next, actually, on our way back east. I... well, for obvious reasons, we haven't exactly kept in contact.'

He said it so calmly, as though the events in question hadn't nearly destroyed him, that it took Dean's breath away. Knowing what the nonchalance cost, he put an arm around Cas and pulled him over, dropping a kiss on his temple.

'He's much braver than me,' he said, for Jess and Sam's benefit. And then, when Cas tried to protest, 'No, don't, you are. You know you are.'

Cas turned in his seat, playfully bumping their foreheads together. 'Stop it. You'll make me blush.'

'I'll make you do more than that, later,' Dean murmured, too lost in Cas's eyes to care that they had an audience.

Sam make a choking noise; Jess, though, laughed, and as Cas pressed a kiss to his cheek – _I'm OK; carry on_ – Dean sat back and took another mouthful of pie.

'This really is delicious,' he said to Jess, absurdly delighted by his brother's embarrassment. 'You definitely have to tell me how to make this, too.'

'I will,' she said, and from there, they steered the conversation back into safer waters. Sam, though, stayed mostly silent, only chiming in when directly prompted by Jess or, less often, Cas and Dean, but never quite looking at his brother directly.

Until, that is, it was time to clear the table, and a second after Cas volunteered to help Jess with the dishes, Sam turned to Dean and asked, with trademark unsubtlety, 'So, ah. Want to come see the study?'

Dean hesitated; as, indeed, did Cas and Jess, who were both clearly waiting to see how he reacted. Dean caught Cas's gaze and drew strength from it; from the knowledge of what his lover had already found the courage to admit.

'Sure,' he said, nodding yes to the fresh beer Sam was proffering, and followed his brother out through the den, past the stairs and back to a small, quiet room with a couch in one corner, a desk in another, and bookshelves everywhere else. Sam left the door ajar, said, 'Well, this is it,' and flopped down on the couch, leaving Dean, a moment later, to do likewise.

They sat together, elbows identically braced against their knees, and drank, as though they could swallow the silence along with their beer. Then:

'I'm sorry,' Sam said. 'About before. I didn't know, and I know it's stupid and unfair of me, but ever since you called, I've been... hoping, I guess, that it wouldn't be – that there was still some way –'

'You were hoping,' Dean said, 'that I'd exaggerated. Or that it was only sometimes, or that it wasn't so bad you couldn't still remember him the same way.'

'Yeah.' Sam exhaled. 'Something like that. But I can't, can I? And that's why you never told me, so I could still have the good parts. That and the, uh, drowning threat.'

Dean snorted sadly. 'Yeah.' He took a long sip of his beer, steeling himself for what would come next, and as he looked up, he realised Cas was hovering in the hallway, checking he was all right. Dean felt a lump rise in his throat, but though Cas tilted his head, offering to leave, Dean realised that was the last thing he wanted. 'You can come in,' he offered, meaning, _I need you here, please, don't go_.

Sam blinked, puzzled by the segue. 'Who can – oh.' He sat back, frowning as Cas slipped into the room, and shot Dean an affronted look. 'Does he have to hear all this?'

'Yes,' said Dean, as Cas sat down on the floor and leaned against his legs. 'He does.'

Sam sighed, unhappy but resigned. 'All right.' He paused, taking a sip of beer, and then asked, 'When did it start? I mean, how early? I was only six months old when she died, so I don't –'

'Five,' Dean said, quietly. 'I was five. It was mostly just slaps and shoves at first, but it escalated. The first time he really laid into me, though, I was just shy of seven.' He fiddled with his beer, exhaling slowly to try and still his pulse. 'Before then, if he needed to go out, he'd usually find someone to watch us, but I guess he thought I was old enough to manage us both, because that day, he didn't. We were staying in this shitty motel, and he told me to look after you while he went to a job interview, and you just screamed, Sammy, from the second he left. You wanted dad, I wasn't him, I tried everything but I couldn't, I didn't know how to calm you down, and the manager came and asked where dad was, and I was so afraid of getting in trouble, I started crying, and she made us come sit in her office. When dad finally got home, the manager said he couldn't just leave us like that again, or she'd call child services, and that made him about as happy as you'd imagine.'

Dean gulped, running a hand through his hair, and focussed on Cas's presence, on the warmth and solidity of him. 'So we packed up and left, and you, you were so happy dad was back, you fell right asleep in the car, totally passed out. And then, once we were out of town, dad pulled us over, and dragged me aside, and he –' A strangled laugh escaped him. 'Well, he did some damage. Fists and feet. Said it was my fault, that I should've looked after you better, shouldn't have gotten us kicked out. And then we got right back in the car, and when you woke up and asked why I was bleeding, he said we'd stopped at a park and I fell off the top of the big slide, and you were so upset we hadn't woken you to play, we had to stop in the next town over for ice cream. And everyone who asked about me, he told them the same story, how I'd been showing off and taken a fall, and I... I learned pretty quick, after that. How to keep you happy. How to keep quiet.'

There was an ugly silence. Cas pressed back against his legs, offering comfort, and when Dean finally looked at Sam, the grief and horror on his face was almost as bad as a blow.

'Jesus, Dean. I don't remember any of that.' He ran his hands down his face. 'And no one ever caught on?'

'A few people suspected, but no. He never got caught. How could he? We moved around so much, there was never anyone there who could put it all together, not doctors, not neighbours, not teachers – nobody.'

'But _I_ was there!' Sam's distress was palpable. 'Why didn't I see it, Dean? I look back now, and god, it's so obvious something was wrong with you, but at the time –'

'He trained you not to see it, Sam. From before you could talk. Whatever you grow up with is just normal, you know? It's the air you breathe.'

'Oh, right, like that's an excuse. I lived with you, man! I should've noticed _something_.'

Dean sighed, needing to make him understand. 'All right, let me ask you this. You were too young to remember that first time, so what's your earliest memory of me being messed up? Bruised, sore, anything like that.'

The question seemed to catch Sam off-guard. 'I, uh. I don't know.' He frowned, thinking. 'Maybe that time in Arkansas? I was about six, you were ten. I came back from a friend's house, and you'd fallen out of a tree, nearly broke your arm –' He caught himself, grimacing. 'It wasn't a tree, was it.'

Dean remembered the incident all too well. 'No. Not a tree.' He reached for Cas, who half-turned, extending a hand up over his shoulder for Dean to squeeze. 'Dad wanted to move us on again, only I didn't want to leave, so I hid the keys to the car. He, uh, got... creative, about asking for them back.'

'Do I even want to know what that means?'

'Probably not. The point being,' he said, cutting off Sam's protest, 'is that you were six by then, which means you'd already had, what, five years of seeing me beat up and thinking that was normal? And it's not like I didn't do plenty of stupid things, either, get myself hurt in other ways. Hell, it's how I pretty much lived my life. It's all I knew, Sammy.' His throat was tight with tears. 'I thought it was normal, too.'

Abruptly, the office was too small, too close. He felt his chest constrict, and suddenly he was standing, needing to leave but unable to walk. It was Cas who saved him, putting an arm around his waist and saying, when Dean couldn't find the words, 'I think that's enough for one night.'

'Yeah,' said Sam. He rose, a helpless look on his face. 'Yeah, sure. Come upstairs. I'll show you your room.'

Dean followed mutely, trusting Cas to steer them both safely; which, of course, he did.

Sam stopped just outside their door, waiting in the hall as Cas guided them across the threshold. 'Dean?'

He forced himself to look up. 'Yeah?'

'For what it's worth, you've always been an amazing brother. I know I've given you a lot of crap over the years, especially since dad died, but whenever I needed you, you always came through for me. And I don't think I've ever thanked you for that, or understood what it must have cost. So.' He smiled, a little awkward, and shrugged. 'Thank you. For everything.'

And before Dean could figure out how to reply, he disappeared back downstairs.

Dean stood there, stunned, for nearly a full minute, until Cas finally dropped a kiss on his cheek and said, 'Jess told me where the bathroom is. Come on. Let's wash up.'

Dean nodded, but went through the rest of their evening routine in a daze, for once too tired to think of seducing Cas, or to be seduced in turn. He didn't know how to feel, but when he finally fell asleep, he dreamed violently, buried memories rearing up like vipers, the ugly truth as inescapable now as it had been in childhood.

Helpless, he lay curled on the side of an empty road and weathered again that first flurry of blows, whimpering as he rolled from that scene into another, and another, and another. Old pain filled him like poison, and even through the nightmare-fog, he was dimly conscious of sweating, twisting, shaking, but still unable to wake. He relived Arkansas in full, the heavy-sharp weight of John's knee on his spine as his left arm was stretched up and back, the shoulder almost dislocating before he finally screamed where he'd hidden the keys. From there, his dream-self tumbled, gasping, into the clawfoot bath in Montana, thrashing for air as soapy water filled his nose and throat, stinging his eyes, but when he finally clawed his way free, he was being knocked down again in Wynberg, mouth bloody and ribs broken for the crime of kissing Jacob Eires.

Some of what the dream dredged up, he'd consciously forgotten; most of it, though, he remembered in technicolour, and as the memories bled and looped together, crowding out everything else, he started crying, pleading with someone, anyone, to make it stop.

'Please,' he begged. 'Please, dad, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry –'

A big hand gripped the scruff of his neck, the fingers tangling his hair. 'Don't _sorry_ at me, boy,' John snarled, invisible but omnipresent, a phantom more felt than seen. He tightened his grip and hauled Dean's head up, sending fire through his neck. 'You apologise to your brother.'

And suddenly, there was Sammy, thin and young and sandy-haired as he'd been at twelve. He sat cross-legged in the dirt and watched Dean struggle, his gaze accusing and sad.

'Why didn't you tell me, Dean? I could have helped. I could have told someone. Why didn't you trust me?'

Dean moaned, unable to answer, but John twisted his grip again, aiming a kick at his ribs, and barked, 'Answer him!'

'Sammy, I couldn't.' The words came out in a gasp. 'He would've hurt you, too.'

'I would've _what_?'

A blow to the head; Dean saw stars, could feel the hot, bright blood on his lips. John let him drop, and he started to crawl, unable to look away as Sam's child-eyes bore into him. 'If you'd known what he was –' another kick; he shuddered, kept going, '– you wouldn't have been safe. He needed you to save him, needed you innocent. If you'd ever seen –' a knee on his shoulders, pinning him down, '– he couldn't have pretended. You'd have been nothing. Nobody worth stopping for. I would've ruined you, too.' He was crying, bloody tears stinging his lips. 'Sammy, he would've killed me.'

'Wish I had,' said John, and his fist came down like a hammer.

 

*

 

Cas woke to shouting, a wordless cry that went on and on, echoing eerily in the wooden house. Swearing, he fumbled for the bedside light, and there was Dean, thrashing and tangled in the sheets, his face contorted with pain. Cas's heart wrenched at the sight, and as Dean reared upright, still asleep, Cas wrapped him in his arms and held on, whispering in his ear, 'It's all right, love, you're safe, you're fine, I love you, I love you, come back to me, I'm here,' until Dean stilled, and his shouts turned to sobs. He was shaking violently, clinging to Cas like he was the only real thing in the world, but before either of them could speak, the door banged open and Sam lurched in, eyes wide with panic.

'What the hell happened? Are you guys OK? Is –'

He stopped, frozen in place by the sight of Dean, who was red-eyed and weeping, curled against Cas in unmistakeable anguish. A complex set of emotions wheeled across Sam's face, a muscle working in his jaw.

'You had a nightmare,' he said, softly.

Dean nodded, still unable to speak.

'Like when we were kids?'

Another nod, tears rolling down his cheeks. Cas held him closer, fighting the overriding instinct to evict Sam.

'You used to tell me they were about mom, about how she died. But they weren't, were they?'

'No,' Dean whispered. 'Sammy, I'm sorry I lied, but I had to. It would've destroyed him.'

Sam looked like he'd been slapped. 'Destroyed _dad_? Dean, he clearly deserved it!'

'No.' Dean gripped Cas's arm urgently, raising his head. 'No, you don't understand. He could only do what he did because you didn't know. You were his reason, Sammy. His one good thing. And if you'd known, you couldn't have been that any more. He'd have hurt you just like he hurt me.' He made an awful, choked sound. 'Or he'd have killed us both. Or me. Just me, probably. Because I'd ruined you.' And then he crumpled back against Cas, shoulders heaving, and Sam just stood there, his mouth fixed in a horrified _oh_ of understanding.

'We'll be fine,' said Cas, into the silence. It was as polite a dismissal as he could manage, and Sam took the hint; he backed out of the room so fast, he almost fell over his own feet, and shut the door hard behind him.

'Dean?' Cas murmured. 'I'm here, love. I've got you.' He kissed his cheek. 'I've got you.' He kissed his ear. 'Tell me what you need.' He kissed his jaw. 'What do you need?'

Dean made a choked sound, shuddering in his arms. 'Tell me you love me?'

Cas turned his face towards him, thumb smoothing across his cheekbone. 'I love you, Dean. I think I always have. The first time I saw you, it was like part of me had come home, and I didn't know why, but my heart did.' He kissed the corner of his mouth, his other hand gently stroking his wrist. 'I love you like a fool, and you make me wise. I love you when I'm weak, and you make me strong.' He kissed his eyelids, one by one. 'I love your music. I love it when you sing, I love your voice, I love how you tap out drum solos on the kitchen bench –' Dean made a sound that was almost laughter; Cas trailed a touch up his arm and kissed below his left eye, '– and I love, I especially love, the sleepy noise you make first thing in the morning.' Another kiss, just beneath his right eye, and now he could feel Dean stirring, turning in his arms, no longer shaking but covered in goosebumps, hands sliding shyly up Cas's thighs. 'I love your kindness, I love that you make me feel loved, and whole, and worthy, just like you are loved, and whole, and worthy.' He kissed his nose. 'I love that I could spend the rest of my life telling you how much I love you, and why, and it still wouldn't be enough. But I'm going to try, Dean, because I love you, now –' he kissed his forehead, smiling, '– and always.'

He leaned in, finally brushing his mouth to Dean's; his lover inhaled sharply, and Cas's tongue slid between his parted lips. Dean kissed back, and they melted together, shivering everywhere they touched. Gently, Cas laid him back down, and as Dean's hands came up and stroked along his back – a featherlight touch, seeking permission – he mewled with pleasure and kissed him greedily, curling his hands around Dean's shoulders. He slid his thigh between Dean's legs, shifting his weight, shuddering as they pressed together.

'Cas.' Dean mouthed his name, teeth grazing against his jaw, throat, ear. 'Cas. My Cas. My Castiel.'

'I love you,' Cas whispered back. He felt like he was on fire, lips burning where they trailed across Dean's collarbone, his breath coming faster and faster. He ground down against Dean, trying to stifle both their moans by biting his bottom lip, then gasping in turn as Dean's nails dug into his scars. It should have hurt – he should have flinched – but after a lifetime of being scarred by pain, his sudden desire to be marked by love was visceral, overwhelming. He kissed Dean harder, goading him with his tongue, and groaned into his mouth as he raked his back. Dean brought his leg up, nudging Cas closer, and all at once, he couldn't wait. He reached down between them, stroking Dean's length through his boxers.

'Tell me what you want,' he panted – _oh, please, want this, want me, I need you_ – and almost came when Dean leaned up, bit the shell of his ear, and said, his voice gone thick with lust, 'You, inside me.'

'I think I can manage that,' Cas said, and set about working their boxers off. Dean tipped his head back, baring the gorgeous column of his throat, and Cas couldn't help himself; he leaned in, sucking the already days-old lovebite over his pulse-point, and as Dean gasped, he grabbed the lube from the nightstand and squeezed it onto both hands. Kneeling between Dean's legs, he slid first one finger inside him, then two, loving the look of breathless anticipation that crossed his face. He stroked himself, slick and ready, and when Dean whimpered, 'Please,' he lined up and pushed all the way inside him, gripping the backs of his knees with slippery palms.

Dean's eyes went wide. 'Oh god, Cas, I – oh, fuck me, _fuck_ –' He tailed off into gasps and whimpers, hips bucking as Cas quickened his pace; he'd wanted to take his time, draw it out, but oh, fuck, he couldn't, not with Dean biting his lip like that, not with the sounds he was making. He could feel his climax building, and when he reached down to take hold of Dean, the change in stance and pressure almost undid him. He slowed, letting his hand slide up and down Dean's shaft, thumb toying with his foreskin, wanting to watch him come apart – which, beautifully, he did, back arching as he cried out Cas's name and pushing down so hard that Cas followed him over the edge a scant second later, utterly wrecked. He collapsed on top of him, kissing his lover feverishly as Dean ran his fingers through his hair, over and over.

'I love you,' Dean whispered. 'God, Cas, how are you even real?'

'How are any of us?' Cas said, resting his head on Dean's shoulder. 'Humans are impossible.'

'You're special, though. You, you're just – you're everything to me, you know that?'

'Just one of the many reasons why I love you.' Cas smiled at him, sated and sleepy, and leant up to kiss his temple. 'No more bad dreams, OK? I forbid it.'

'OK,' Dean said. He hitched up the blanket, Cas curling against him like a cat, and kissed his forehead. 'You're the boss.'

'Damn straight,' Cas murmured. 'Or, you know. Damn queer.'

Dean chuckled. 'You're such a dork.'

'Your dork?'

'Yeah.' Dean hugged him. 'My dork.'

They fell asleep within minutes, and didn't wake until morning.

 

 


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goddamit, this was meant to be the last chapter, and then All The Porn happened. Just one more to go, though!

 

Dean woke early, refreshed in a way he'd never really been, pre-Cas; as though, before, he'd always been too tense or scared to properly relax. And with the sort of nightmares he had – or rather, what they were based on – was that really so surprising? But Cas had saved him there, too; had gentled him out of pain and into pleasure, told him he loved him, had made him _believe_ he loved him, that he was worthy of love, until all he could feel and think was Cas, and his dreams turned soft and welcoming.

'Cas?' he murmured sleepily, reaching out for his lover. 'You there, baby?'

He wasn't, as it turned out. Dean pouted and sat up, wincing a little at the state of the sheets – and oh, god, he couldn't decide what was more mortifying: that Sam had seen him emotionally broken, or that he'd most likely heard him having sex – and got out of bed, grabbing a towel and a pair of jeans on his way to the bathroom. He showered quickly, dried himself off, pulled on the jeans and went back to check the clock in their room, surprised to find it wasn't even eight yet. Not knowing if Sam and Jess were up, he padded quietly downstairs. There was music coming from the kitchen, and not just any music, but Bad Company, which was undeniably _his_ music.

Grinning now, he crept to the doorway, already planning exactly what he was going to say to Sam, the big hypocrite, who'd always mocked his penchant for classic rock – and then stopped, utterly transfixed by the sight that met his eyes.

Dressed in nothing but black jeans and an apron, Cas was singing along to Wild Fire Woman, dancing as he cooked breakfast for four, complete with bacon, eggs and a pot of fresh coffee. Dean flushed, unable to rip his gaze away from what was, essentially, the unexpected manifestation of several different fantasies. Just as shocking, however, was the fact that Cas had opted to go shirtless: his scars were clearly visible, but even at a distance, Dean could see they were now overlain by the thin, red lines his own nails had left, and god, that shouldn't have been hot, except that it totally was, and before he could stop himself, he crept across the kitchen, slipped his arms around Cas's waist – his lover jumped, then laughed – and bit his shoulder, hands running eagerly over Cas's body.

'Morning,' Cas purred, leaning back into Dean's embrace. 'I see you're, ah, up.' _In both senses of the word,_ was the unspoken rider, and just at that moment, Dean didn't care who knew it.

'Damn right,' he said, and promptly spun Cas around for a kiss. 'What's with the cooking? Not,' he added quickly, 'that I'm complaining.'

Cas was holding a spatula; he gestured it towards the frypan. 'Well, we're guests, and I think we probably freaked Sam out last night, what with the nightmares and then with all the loud sex, so I thought I'd try to do something considerate, you know. By way of compensation.'

Dean chuckled, settling his hands on Cas's hips, thumbs stroking the bones. 'Yeah, because nothing says _Sorry I Boned Your Emotionally Vulnerable Brother In The Guest Room_ like crispy bacon.'

'If you can think of a more thematically appropriate foodstuff,' said Cas, seriously, 'then by all means, I'm open to suggestions.' He tilted his head, blinking. 'Emotionally vulnerable? Should I not have –'

'Oh, man, was that ever not a complaint.' Dean kissed him again, loving the way Cas's arms came up to curl around his neck. 'You were perfect.' He pressed their foreheads together, and added, somewhat huskily, 'You're always perfect.'

'Flatterer,' Cas said.

Just then, a new song came on, and Dean actually laughed out loud as he realised it was Feel Like Makin' Love. 'Your iPod doesn't lie,' he murmured, putting his lips to Cas's throat. 'In fact, it's giving me ideas.'

Cas chuckled, but there was a breathy hitch in his voice. 'Firstly, and as loathe as I am to point this out, we cannot have sex in your brother's kitchen, especially not when we're trying to apologise for the sex we already had. Secondly, even if it were _our_ kitchen, there'd be a hygiene factor. And thirdly –' he let out a small moan, head tipped back as Dean nipped at his jaw, '– it would constitute a criminal waste of breakfast.'

'It's probably wrong that I find the food argument more compelling than the other two,' said Dean, splaying a hand possessively over Cas's lower back. 'OK, so no sex. Dance with me, then.' And he started swaying, delighted when Cas followed his lead.

Cas linked his wrists behind Dean's neck, smiling provocatively. 'You call this dancing? It seems more like shuffling.'

'Yeah, well, pretend we're at prom. Hell, it's not like we don't have the right soundtrack.'

'I never went to prom.'

'You what?'

'I never went to prom,' Cas repeated. 'You know, what with spending my teenage years in a cult.'

Dean winced, but when he saw that Cas wasn't upset, he stroked his hips, pulling him closer, and said, 'Well, you honestly didn't miss much. Just a lot of sexual frustration and strategic swaying.' He reached up, taking Cas's free hand and tangling their fingers together, and kept on dancing.

'Strategic swaying?' Cas asked, mischievously. 'Is that what you call it?'

'Apparently,' said Dean, and surprised them both by spinning Cas, who laughed, stumbled awkwardly, and threw both arms back around Dean's neck for balance. 'Kids these days, with their video games and strategic swaying. No wonder the country's a mess.'

'Oh, shut up,' said Cas, fondly running a finger over his lips.

Dean grinned. 'Make me.'

And Cas did, with considerable enthusiasm, until an emphatic cough from the doorway forced them both apart, blushing like teenagers.

'Y'know,' said Sam, sauntering over to turn off the stove, quite pointedly not looking at either of them, 'I'm pretty sure, since this is my house, I shouldn't keep walking in on you guys. And yet.'

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. 'Well, in all fairness, Sammy, the first time, we weren't actually _in_ the house, and the second time, we were in bed, so –'

'Just don't have sex on my stuff, OK? I feel like that's a reasonable request.' He started serving up the food, grabbing plates and cutlery from their respective drawers. 'But nice job with the breakfast, though. Your idea?' This last to Cas.

'I'm a man of many talents.'

'Well, thanks. It's a nice treat.' He hesitated, looking away. 'And, uh. I'm sorry about last night. About all of it.'

Dean swallowed. 'I'm sorry, too. You shouldn't have had to see me like that.'

'Like what, Dean? Vulnerable?' He shook his head, affection and disbelief warring on his face. 'Listen, I get it now. I didn't before, not really, but after that, I do.'

'What?' Dean snorted, trying to pretend his stomach hadn't just lurched. 'Because you saw me cry?'

'Because,' said Sam, patiently, 'it was honest. It was _real_. My whole life, dad lied to me about who you were, what you were like, and you couldn't risk correcting him, and now I have to figure you out like we've never really met. It's not just childhood stuff, Dean – although god knows, we clearly lived two different versions of everything – it's about you, you as a person. So.' He sat down, waving for them to do likewise, which, after a moment, they did. 'I get it.'

'Well, then,' said Dean, embarrassed. 'I guess that's, uh, settled. Good. Good talk.'

'What's good?' asked Jess, making a late entrance. 'Ooh! Coffee!'

'Thank Cas,' said Sam, and just like that, it was a normal morning – or as normal as Dean's mornings ever seemed to be right now, which admittedly wasn't very – and he and Cas were eating breakfast with Sam and Jess, neither of whom made even the slightest comment about the fact that their guests were both shirtless, visibly scarred in interesting ways, and, more saliently, covered in the sorts of bites and scratches you only really got from enthusiastic sex. Instead, they discussed Dean's taste in music (Jess approved, Sam didn't), the movie they thought they'd catch before lunch (Sam approved, Jess didn't) and the finer points of why couples who otherwise lived in harmony could still feel like throttling each other over inconsequential trivia (roundtable discussion, Sam and Dean deemed more objectively annoying than Cas and Jess by three votes to two, but only because they both voted against each other).

When the food was finally finished – and, just as importantly, when they'd all agreed on a choice of movie – Sam and Jess stayed to do the washing up while Dean and Cas, the latter now apron-free, went back upstairs to get properly dressed. The whole thing had been so friendly, so _easy –_ an actual family moment like the kind you saw on TV, and which Dean had therefore assumed was functionally unrealistic – that it left him feeling dizzy. He swayed at the top of the stairs, and only Cas's hand on his arm as they entered their room kept him anchored to reality.

'Dean? Are you OK?'

'Yeah,' he said, and suddenly there was a lump in his throat. He looked at Cas, at the sheer beauty of him, and ran a reverent, teasing hand over his pecs. 'Never better.' And he leaned in, licking a long, slow stripe across Cas's collarbone. Cas shuddered and moaned, fingers coming up to tangle in Dean's hair, and as he kicked the door shut behind them, Dean gripped his lover's hips and started kissing his chest. Cas hissed as Dean sucked his nipples and knelt before him, nipping down his ribs, undoing his jeans – and gasping a little, as he realised Cas had nothing on underneath them – and kissing across to his hips, slipping the denim slowly back.

'Oh god, Dean.' Cas was breathing hard, looking down at him with eyes as wide and dark as the ocean, their gazes locked as Dean mouthed at his cock. 'Are you sure you – _hnnnng_. Oh, _fuck_.'

Dean sucked him skilfully, tongue sliding up and down the underside of the shaft as he took Cas all the way into his throat. He groaned a little, thumbs stroking the inside of Cas's thighs as his lover gripped his hair, urging him on. Out of sheer perversity, he slowed his pace, swallowing Cas as deep as he could, then letting his lips slick back up his length at glacial speed, then down again, tongue flicking playfully all the while, until Cas was making noises so obscene and needy, Dean was the one in danger of coming. He brought a hand across, briefly sucking two of his fingers along with Cas, then ran them in a wet line from perineum to ass, slipping a digit inside him.

' _Fuck!_ ' Cas gripped his head, shuddering as Dean worked on him. 'Oh, fuck, baby, I can't, I'm going to –'

He came hot and hard, and Dean swallowed greedily. As he stood, he kissed his way back up Cas's stomach, lips moving over his chest and throat until Cas growled impatiently and pulled their mouths together, reaching down with one hand to stroke him through his jeans. Dean whimpered, grinding himself against Cas's touch – and then, maddeningly, Cas pulled away, an insufferable smile on his face.

'Oh, no,' he murmured, eyes bright with mischief. 'I think I might make you wait.'

Dean grabbed Cas's jeans, pulling him closer, biting hungrily at his throat. 'You wouldn't.'

'I would. Going to make you wait all day,' Cas said, hands sliding sensuously over his ribs. 'We'll go out, and you'll still be tasting me, and aching –' he licked Dean's ear, and he groaned, needing Cas to touch him, needing release, but so aroused by his teasing he could barely think straight, '– and you won't be able to do a thing but beg.'

'I'm begging _now_ ,' he said hoarsely. ' _Please_ , Cas.'

'Tell you what,' said Cas, who was clearly enjoying this far too much, 'I'll make you a deal.' He let his hands graze up Dean's flanks, and Dean whimpered helplessly, leaning into him. 'If you can make it to midday without touching me, then I'll fuck you in the Impala, right there and then.'

Dean made a tortured noise. _Oh, sweet merciful Christ_. 'How do I not touch you?' he whispered. 'Jesus, Cas, I can't –'

'Oh, there'll still be touching,' Cas said, biting at Dean's jaw, 'because _I_ can touch _you_. But if you can keep your hands to yourself for the next few hours, then any time after twelve, you tell me you're ready, and I'll take you _exactly_ where you want to go. But if you can't – if you give in, and touch me – then the car is off limits forever.' His fingers spidered up Dean's back. 'Deal?'

'Yes,' Dean groaned, quivering with lust. God, he'd never had sex in his car before, though there'd been plenty of times he'd come close, and the idea of finally christening it with Cas hit more of his buttons than he'd care to admit. He remembered Cas straddling him in the front seat outside the shop, and just the memory was nearly enough to tip him over the edge. 'Deal.'

'Good,' said Cas, and kissed him. 'This is going to be _fun_.'

And only when he stepped away, still grinning, did he realise he'd just signed up for a sex game during an outing with Sam and Jess. 'Oh, _fuck_ ,' he whispered, and glanced desperately at the clock.

It was 8:30am, and he had no idea how the hell he was going to survive the next three and a half hours.

The answer, it soon became clear, was _with significant fucking difficulty_. From the look Sam gave him when they finally went back downstairs, dressed and ready, they'd been overheard again, and when Dean suggested they take separate cars on their outing, his brother just stared at him and said, 'Why?'

'In case anyone wants to, uh, come home early,' he said, acutely aware of Cas's sudden proximity but unable to do anything about it, and oh, fuck, this was impossible; all he wanted to do was grab his lover by the shoulders and kiss him until he bent Dean over the table, and some of that desire must have shown in his face, because Sam made a face and said, 'You mean, in case you guys want to head off and have more sex, right?'

'Uh –' said Dean, unable to think of a plausible response.

Sam groaned. 'Oh my god, that's it, isn't it? Seriously?'

'Hey,' said Dean, his ears flaming red, 'I just spent the past three weeks recovering from a joint case of torture and nearly being shot to death, which I think entitles me to a little mindless hedonism. So no judging, OK?'

'I'm judging a little,' Cas murmured, pressing his mouth to the back of Dean's neck. Dean shivered all over, and Sam threw up his hands in defeat.

'Two cars it is,' he said, grabbing his coat. 'God knows, if I let the two of you in ours, you'd probably just defile it.'

Jess raised an eyebrow, smirking. 'Oh, like we haven't?'

Sam's face went crimson. 'That's different,' he mumbled, and fled the room to the sound of their laughter.

Out at the car, Dean went to open the driver's side door, but found himself forestalled by Cas, who slipped an arm around his waist, kissed his neck, spun and then let go, successfully manoeuvring Dean out of the way.

'I'm driving,' he said, and this time it was Dean who blushed as Sam, who'd seen the whole thing, brayed with laughter.

'What's this? Dean Winchester, being manhandled away from his own ride and _liking_ it? We really are strangers.' And he grinned the special victory grin of little brothers everywhere.

'Goddamit,' Dean said, aroused and embarrassed all at once. He hustled over to the passenger side and sat down, slamming the door behind him. 'I swear to god, Cas – _ahhh_.' He got no further, forestalled by the hand running sensuously up his inner thigh.

'What was that, Dean?' Cas said mildly, starting the engine. 'I lost you there.'

'You _bastard_ ,' Dean whispered, more turned on than he'd ever been in his life – which, given how he'd spent the past few days, was saying something. 'You – I don't – oh, fuck –' He sat back, panting, and did up his belt, trying and failing not to think about how hard he was. 'So help me, the _second_ it hits twelve, I don't care where we are or what we're doing, you're _mine_.'

'You're mine, you mean,' said Cas, just huskily enough that the breath caught in Dean's throat.

'Yeah.'

'Say it.'

'I'm yours,' Dean said, and groaned when Cas reached over and tweaked a nipple through his shirt. God, he already felt wrecked, and they weren't even at the fucking movie yet – how the hell was he going to last?

The film they'd chosen was an action flick which, not so long ago, Dean had been eager to see, but as they filed into the otherwise empty cinema – it was the first session on a Tuesday, and they had the place to themselves – he already knew he wasn't going to be watching. He'd checked the end time with the attendant outside, and either Cas had already known and had been deliberately provocative in his choice of deadline, or else Dean was just plain unlucky, because the film wouldn't end until 12:15. Even once you deducted the probable length of the credits, that still left a solid ten minutes in which they would either be forced to wait, or run out early and miss the end – not, he suspected, that he was going to notice much of the plot before that point, but it would be conspicuous as hell, and sooner or later, they were going to run up against the limits of Sam's patience for their sexual hijinks.

Dean sat down, wishing he'd bought popcorn so he had something to do with his hands, and tried to focus.

'Um,' said Sam, stalled in the aisle as Jess whispered in his ear. 'I think we're gonna grab our own row. Seeing as how, you know, we're not exactly pressed for space –'

'Go ahead,' said Dean, pulse hammering in his chest, and as Cas sat down beside him, he watched Sam and Jess pick seats as far away from them as possible, right down the front of the theatre and on the other side of the room.

Cas leaned over and lipped his ear. 'Oh, this is going to be _fun_.'

Dean whimpered. 'You're going to kill me. You're going to fucking _kill_ me, Cas.'

'Oh, I don't know.' He could _feel_ Cas grinning, but didn't trust himself to meet his eyes. Cas licked the tip of a finger, running it in cool circles over the back of Dean's hand; he was gripping the armrest like an anchor to reality, but as anchors went, it was proving wholly ineffectual. 'I wonder,' Cas murmured, 'how close I can get you, just like this.' He nipped Dean's neck, exhaling softly, heat like lightning shooting through Dean's core. Cas's damp finger wander downwards, tracing languid loops and curls on his inner thigh. 'I wonder –' Dean tipped his head back, moaning quietly, '– how little, and how lightly, would I have to touch you, to make you come for me?'

Dean was panting, short, shallow breaths that verged on hyperventilation. He was desperately hard, cock twitching in his jeans, and he didn't know what he wanted more: for Cas to keep teasing him like this, keep him strung out and gasping until he finally came apart, or for his lover to lose control and fuck him right there and then. All he knew was that nothing and nobody had ever been sexier than Cas was right now, and oh, fuck, he wanted to grab him, wanted to reach over and kiss him and hold him, wanting Cas to pin him down and make him scream –

The trailers started playing, a blast of sound that was all the louder for being unexpected, and as Dean startled upright, Cas chose that moment to slip his hand up and squeeze his cock, just once, through his jeans. It was just as well the volume was as loud as it was, because otherwise, Sam and Jess would have doubtless heard him moaning from the other end of the cinema. Cheeks flushed, Dean bucked up into Cas's touch, which was withdrawn just as quickly, and started to plead.

'Cas, baby, please, you've gotta give me something, please, I need you, I need –'

'What, Dean?' Cas leaned closer, pulling one knee wide as he sucked Dean's earlobe. 'I could do so many things to you, here, in the dark. You'll have to be specific.' He slid his hand up under Dean's shirt, dragging his thumb gently along the sensitive skin of his scars. 'What do you want me to do?'

'Oh, god.' Dean shut his eyes, writhing in the seat as Cas slid a finger up and down the seam of his jeans; he hadn't bothered to put on boxers when he dressed, and the feel of the rough denim steadily turning slick with precum was driving him crazy. He forgot where they were; forgot everything except for Cas, and how badly he wanted him. 'Fuck me. Suck me. Touch me. Kiss me. Do whatever you want, Cas, but just do _something_.'

Cas's mouth was next to his ear, and even over the sound of the trailers, Dean heard the desperate hitch in his breathing. 'Not until twelve,' he rasped, sucking a series of bites down Dean's neck, but pulling his hand back to rest on his knee. 'Have to be patient.'

'You really want that?' Dean's mouth was dry; he couldn't touch Cas, but he still had one way to goad him, one way of exerting control. 'Screw patience. Screw _me_. You could be screwing me right now, Cas, any way you wanted. God, I just want to feel you inside me, I want you to –'

Cas grabbed his jaw and kissed him, hard and hungry, and it took every ounce of Dean's willpower just to keep gripping the armrests, to lean in with his mouth alone. Cas bit his bottom lip so hard he drew blood, then sucked it shamelessly, flicking Dean's nipple through his shirt as he whined and jerked his hips in helpless arousal.

'Cas, baby, please, _please_ –'

' _Wait_ ,' Cas hissed – or was he pleading, too? Dean couldn't tell any more, but when he next glanced at Cas, he saw his chest was heaving, eyes wide with lust, a telltale bulge in his pants. 'We have to wait.'

'Why? Give me one good reason why.'

'I'll give you two,' said Cas. 'They're called Sam and Jess, and as loud as it is in here, I draw the line at fucking you senseless while your little brother and his girlfriend are physically in the same room as us.'

'Shit,' said Dean, who'd somehow managed to forget that particular fact.

'But,' said Cas – and he leaned in again, running two fingers tenderly along the underside of Dean's jaw – 'make no mistake: I _will_ be fucking you senseless.'

Dean tried to answer, but all that came out was a breathy whine.

And then Cas stopped touching him all together, forcing them both to sit back and, somehow, impossibly, watch the movie, or as close to watching as either of them could manage under the circumstances. It was the most erotically charged two hours of his life; enough so that, if and when he ever did watch that particular film again, he doubted he'd be able to disentangle the memory of it from the bodily, all-consuming arousal Cas had produced in him. He'd try to focus, and for a few minutes at a time, it was possible – until Cas ran a finger along his arm, or kissed his ear, or murmured a brief but colourful description of what he wanted to do to him, and then he'd be shuddering all over again. It was exhausting, a near tantric level of build-up; even intermittently, he'd never been so hard for so long, and although he did nothing more strenuous than sit and grip the chair, only moving to lean into a kiss or a touch from Cas, before long, he was sweaty and shaking, muscles as tense as if he'd run a marathon.

Something on screen was exploding when Dean's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, puzzled – then froze, heart thumping. On the drive over, he'd set an alarm for midday, and it had finally gone off. Cas looked across, frowning.

'What's that – oh. _Oh_.' His eyes widened as he took in the screen, then flicked back up to Dean's face. 'We –'

Dean grabbed Cas's shirt and hauled him bodily into his lap, kissing him until he gasped. It was briefly awkward – the armrests got in the way – but they were the flip-up kind, easily moved, and then Cas was straddling him, grinding down so wantonly, it was clear he'd been suffering just as much as Dean. Cas slid his hands under Dean's shirt, nails raking his sides as Dean gripped his ass and pulled them together, desperate and panting.

'Car,' Cas moaned, biting Dean's shoulder. 'We should – go – car –'

Dean ran his hands up Cas's spine, fingers spread as he scratched down, hard, so that Cas arched his back, mewling with pleasure. 'Too far. Here.'

'Car,' Cas repeated. He dug his hands into Dean's hair, pulling him up for a hot, biting kiss. ' _Now_.'

And then he stood, pushing himself to his feet, and Dean was powerless not to follow; Cas grabbed his wrist and yanked him down the stairs at a run. When they reached the bottom, he used Dean's momentum to pin him up against the wall, their bodies flush as he kissed him. And then they were off again, the whole thing so ridiculous, they were both laughing breathlessly as they burst out into the light of the foyer, startling the gaggle of patrons already waiting for the next session. Stopping was impossible, because once they did, there was nothing on god's green earth that could have prevented Dean from committing an act of gross indecency with Cas, audience be damned, and if he was going to get arrested for fucking his lover in public, then it was sure as hell wasn't going to be here.

They'd parked in an underground garage below the cineplex, accessible via the escalators, and as they bolted down the steps, Cas still hauling him onwards, Dean was overcome by a sense of exhilaration so profound, it was almost an epiphany. He could feel the moment, or the memory of it, coalescing in his mind, and knew, without being able to articulate why, that this stupid, simple instant would be with him forever, preserved in all its sensate glory: the sweat trickling down his back, the thunder of his pulse, the wet-friction rub of his jeans, the burn of Cas's hand on his wrist, and over it all, the joy rising up through every scrap and fibre of his being – joy at being loved, wanted, needed – as he flew in pursuit of the man who'd already caught him forever, body and soul.

They hit the ground again, both still laughing as they darted through the carpark, across to the distant, hopefully private corner where Cas had left the Impala. Dean could see the bonnet, gleaming and distinctive, and then they were there, and Cas was pulling the keys from his pocket, hands shaking as he unlocked the doors and hauled the rear one open.

'Get in,' he growled, and all but shoved Dean onto the back seat, climbing in and slamming the door shut behind him. Dean grabbed Cas's shirt and hauled him down, moaning into his lover's mouth as he wrapped his legs around him. Pain shot up his spine – he'd lain back at the most awkward angle possible, his skull hitting the other door without anything to cushion his neck – until Cas gripped his hips and pulled him flat. Dazed and panting, Dean watched as Cas, now kneeling between his legs, pulled his shirt off over his head, revealing his gorgeous chest.

'Sit up,' Cas said, voice hoarse with lust, and Dean obeyed, removing his shirt in turn. This time, they slid together upright, grasping and kissing like teens at a drivethrough, hands reaching down to unzip their jeans. There was a moment of mutual exhalation as they took hold of each other: they were both sticky with precum and ragingly hard, and as Dean wriggled out of his jeans entirely, letting them fall into the footwell, he almost came just from the simple pressure of Cas's hand.

'Tell me you brought lube,' he panted, and for a miracle, Cas reached back into his pocket – somehow contriving to shuck his jeans in the same motion – and pulled out the bottle they'd formerly kept on the nightstand. He could barely breathe, utterly fixated as Cas reached down and gathered up their clothes, wadding them up into a makeshift pillow behind Dean, who lay back against them, the hard ball of fabric supporting his neck.

Trembling, Cas coated the fingers of one hand with lube, then leaned down to kiss him, his free palm tenderly cupping the side of Dean's head as the other slipped up to touch him.

'Dean,' he whispered, and slipped a finger inside him. Dean arched his back, legs spread as wide as he could go, and pushed himself down onto Cas's hand.

'More,' he begged, and Cas obliged, first with a second finger, and then a third, scissoring until Dean couldn't take it any more; he locked his ankles around Cas's waist, push-pulling him closer, and whispered, 'Fuck me.'

Breathing hard, Cas withdrew his fingers, slicked the rest of the lube on himself, and thrust into Dean with a cry. Almost sobbing, he braced his weight on his arms and crushed their mouths together, bottoming out as Dean dug his nails into his back. They shuddered together, hips rocking, Dean's cock pressed up between them, and god, he was close, so fucking close, but somehow didn't tip over. He lifted a hand to Cas's face, running a thumb across his lips and moaning obscenely when Cas sucked it into his mouth, biting the pad, tongue slicking against the tip. His gorgeous eyes were wide and infinite, fixed on Dean with a look that was pure love and lust commingled; Dean was transfixed, thighs burning as he clamped himself around Cas, urging him to go faster, harder, both of them dripping with sweat as they fucked themselves into oblivion.

Dean's thumb popped out of Cas's mouth; he slid his palm up the plane of his cheek, fingers tangling in his dark hair as he pulled their foreheads together, until they were each only breathing what the other exhaled, lips brushing greedily.

'I love you,' Cas panted. 'Dean, I love you, I love you –'

'I love you,' he echoed, so utterly wrecked, he couldn't even recognise his own voice. 'Cas, fuck, you're everything, baby, I –' He groaned, back arching as Cas reached between them to grasp his cock, and suddenly he was seeing stars, hurtling towards a climax so achingly prolonged, he could feel its onrush in every atom, every gasp and sinew. Cas fucked into him, hard and fast, and Dean was shattered, shaking, scoring bloody lines in his lover's back as he gripped him tight, so lost in the inhuman sounds of pleasure Cas was making that he barely registered his own screams; and then they were both undone, coming so violently that they bucked against each other, bodies convulsing in the tight space.

' _Fuck_ ,' Cas moaned, and collapsed against him, shoulders heaving; Dean wrapped his arms around him, stroking Cas's back as he gasped for air.

' _Holy hell_.' He was boneless, spasming with aftershocks.

'Dean,' Cas said, brokenly. 'Oh, god.' Dean reached up, smoothing his fingers through Cas's hair, and only then, as his lover raised his face, did he realise Cas was crying, actually _crying._ Dean's heart nearly twisted out of his chest with panic. 'Cas? Oh, god, baby, did I hurt you? Fuck, baby –' he ran his hands over Cas's cheeks, thumbing the tears away, '– please, please, I didn't –'

Cas crushed their mouths together, kissing him passionately, and when he pulled back, the tears were still there, but he was smiling, the most beautiful, tremulous expression Dean had ever seen on his face. 'Dean,' he said softly, and somehow he made the name a prayer. He leaned in, peppering him with kisses, and in between every brush of his lips, he said it again, as reverent as the world's most beautifully debauched monk. 'Dean. Dean. Dean.'

Flush with relief, Dean stroked Cas's cheek, the breath catching in his throat at the sheer perfection of him. 'Cas, you're incredible, you know that? You're a devil from heaven.'

Cas smiled down at him, eyes full of love. 'Dean?'

'Mm?'

'Marry me.'

Dean inhaled sharply, and for an exquisite moment, he was too overwhelmed to even speak. He could feel tears pricking his eyes, a tight joy in his throat, the whole world painted the same piercing blue as Castiel's eyes. 'Yes,' he whispered. 'God, yes. I love you, Cas.' He traced his face with his fingertips. 'You're everything.'

'I love you, too.' And he kissed him, sweet and absurdly chaste, given that they were naked and sticky and blissfucked in the back seat of a car whose windows they'd steamed silver. And then the reality of it hit them, and they both started laughing again, clutching each other helplessly.

'Oh, god. What the fuck do we tell Sammy?'

Cas nipped his shoulder, stifling a giggle. 'You tell him he gets to organise your stag night, and to get used to the idea of having an incorrigible reprobate for a brother-in-law.'

' _My_ stag night? What about yours? And I take issue,' he added, wrapping Cas in his arms, 'with _incorrigible reprobate_. I mean, go easy. That's my future husband you're talking about.'

Cas nestled into his chest. 'My sincerest apologies. Is lovebitten reprobate any better?'

'Angel-devil, if anything.' Dean kissed him, soft and slow, and never once stopped smiling. 'My sinner-saint.'

'I can live with that.' He kissed his throat. 'As for my stag, I'll ask Anna to throw it.'

Dean laughed out loud. 'Oh, that's brilliant!'

'I thought so, too.'

They lay there quietly, breathing together. 'Cas?'

'Mm?'

'Not that this isn't a magical, perfect moment, but we should probably put our pants back on before we get arrested.'

'Oh, I don't know.' Cas grinned down at him, wicked as sin. 'I rather fancy the sight of you in handcuffs.'

 

 


	34. Chapter 34

Much to Cas and Dean’s amusement, Sam reacted to the news of their engagement with, if not quite angry bafflement, then an understandable level of confusion. He had, in fairness, been given a lot to deal with in a comparatively short space of time, and this latest development appeared to constitute a personal tipping point. Once they cleaned themselves up, rejoined their hosts and drove back from the movies – and it was just as well they’d taken two cars, because Sam’s tiny hatchback couldn’t possibly have contained all four of them plus an awkward silence – he dragged Dean aside for what he referred to as a ‘brotherly chat,’ and if not for the fact that Dean himself was still grinning his head off, Cas would have been hard-pressed not to chase after them. Instead, he took a deep breath and let Jess sit him down in the kitchen for an altogether simpler conversation.

‘So,’ she said, lips twitching in a smile. ‘Congratulations.’

Cas raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

‘You’re not going to lecture me?’

‘Why would I?’

Cas inclined his head in the direction Sam and Dean had gone, from which the very faintest strains of shouting could be heard. ‘I can think of a few good reasons.’

‘Lecture yourself, then. Or don’t.’ At the look on his face, Jess rolled her eyes and grinned. ‘You really want to hear what I think?’

‘Yes, actually.’

She folded her hands. ‘Life is short, and I don’t have a dog in this fight. Well, not a big dog, anyway. Maybe a puppy. Which isn’t to say I don’t care about you and Dean – I do! – but you’re grown men, and even if we’re sort of familyish –’

‘Family _ish_?’ asked Cas.

She snorted. ‘You’re engaged to my boyfriend’s brother. Familyish.’

‘Point taken. Continue.’

‘– that still doesn’t give me the right to tell you how to live your lives. That being said, it doesn’t take a genius to see that you two are utterly crazy about each other, and yeah, maybe there’d be something to gain from your waiting a bit, but from where I’m sitting, you’ve both had a rough time of it since, well, pretty much forever, and maybe that means you need this now. It’s like –’ she waved a hand, as though conjuring up the metaphor, ‘– momentum, you know? If you’re going to jump a gap, it’s not the length of the run-up that matters; it’s that you’re going fast enough, and that you don’t falter. That’s what really carries you over – action, not analysis.’

‘Is that the psychologist in you talking, or the friendly observer?’

‘A bit of both, I think.’ And then she reached over and squeezed his hand, a gesture all the more touching for being unexpected. ‘Bottom line, you guys deserve all the happiness you can get, and so I’m happy for you.’

Cas decided he liked Jess very much. ‘And Sam?’

‘I hate to break this to you,’ Jess said, deadpan, ‘but the Winchesters have a stubborn streak.’

Cas feigned a scandalised expression. ‘ _No!_ ’

‘I’m afraid so. But Sam will come around. He just doesn’t like being wrongfooted, is all.’

‘My heart bleeds,’ said Cas, wryly, but he smiled to tale the sting out of it. And then, because he was genuinely curious, ‘Wrongfooted how?’

Jess laughed. ‘You guys ran out of the movie to go screw in the car, remember? Sam was gearing up to yell at Dean for being irresponsible and embarrassing, and then you came back, all glowy and rumpled, and told him you were engaged. Right now, he’s still spinning his gears, but he’ll catch up eventually. You’ll see.’

And so they did, when, just a few minutes later, Sam and Dean returned from their ‘chat’, the former blushing furiously, the latter grinning even more broadly than before.

‘Hey,’ said Cas, unable to keep the smile off his face.

‘Hey,’ said Dean, and kissed him sweetly on the cheek, pulling up a chair with his free hand. ‘So. My esteemed brother –’ he cocked his head at Sam, ‘– wants to grill you about your intentions towards me, Jane Austen style.’

‘Seriously?’ Cas blinked at Sam. ‘Do I need duelling pistols?’

A muscle twitched in Sam’s jaw. ‘Hopefully not,’ he said, but the attempt at seriousness was rather spoiled by Jess’s poorly suppressed giggling.

‘Very well, then.’ With mock ceremony, Cas stood and offered Sam a bow. ‘Shall we talk like gentlemen, sir?’

‘In the study,’ Sam said, his blush deepening. ‘Now.’

‘Of course,’ said Cas, and preceded him out of the kitchen to hoots of laughter from Jess and Dean.

The exchange which followed was nothing if not memorable, though it came to a rather abrupt end when Dean, a celebratory beer in hand, poked his head around the door, glared at Sam, and said, ‘Dude. You done yet? We need a shower.’

‘ _We –?_ Oh, no.’ He crossed his arms. ‘Dean, I’m delighted for you, but I’m drawing a goddamn line in the sand. Do _not_ have sex in my shower.’

‘Who said anything about sex?’ He touched a hand to his chest. ‘I’m wounded, Sammy.’ And he winked at Cas, the gesture absurd and thrilling all at once. ‘I was thinking more mouths only.’

‘Oh, god.’ Sam buried his face in his hands. ‘I give up. Go do… whatever. Congratulations.’

And he fled, leaving Dean doubled up with laughter.

‘Well,’ said Cas, sauntering over, ‘you heard the man. That’s a green light.’

Dean straightened, eyes widening. ‘I was joking, Cas!’

‘I’m not.’ He slipped his arms around Dean’s waist and kissed him. ‘Besides, you’re right. We do need a shower.’

‘Oh, god.’ Dean was suddenly flushed. ‘You really are going to kill me.’

‘Just a little death,’ said Cas, grinning. ‘Or should I shower alone?’

‘Like hell you will,’ Dean growled, and that was the last coherent thing either of them said for some time.

The rest of the week passed in a pleasant blur. Sam, as promised, came around in time to both apologise for his initial reaction and shout them all dinner – or at least, he made the reservation, but Cas, who had more money than any of them, insisted on paying for it.

‘You’re the ones with the debt,’ Cas pointed out. _Though not for long,_ he mentally added –he’d already had a quiet word to Dean about the subject of Sam and Jess’s student loans, then made an even quieter call to his bank manager, who’d just about fallen over his feet in his eagerness to expedite matters. That was one future conversation Cas was secretly looking forward to, but in the moment, he waved away Sam’s objections on the grounds that he'd already paid enough by tolerating them both for a week, and that was that.

And then, finally, the visit was up, and it was time to move on to Nevada. Ever since they’d left Monument, Cas had been studiously trying to avoid thinking about this final leg of the trip, and with Dean to distract him, it had been almost frighteningly easy. Now, though, as they drove away from Sam and Jess’s place, the morning light silver-gold where it winked through the windscreen, he felt the first belated stirrings of worry.

‘You all right?’ asked Dean, glancing over at him.

Cas laughed, stomach twisting. ‘I honestly don’t know. It’s too big to feel it properly.’

Taking a hand off the gearstick, Dean reached over to squeeze his hand. ‘Well, whatever you need, you let me know, OK? We’ll use that stoplight system, same as you did for me.’

‘Sure. Thanks.’ Cas squeezed back, stroking a thumb along the back of Dean’s fingers. ‘You know, we really should get rings.’

Dean smiled gently. ‘Is this you changing the subject because you don’t want to talk about Nevada, or are you just being sweet?’

‘A little of both,’ Cas admitted. ‘I… Dean, I have no idea how I’m going to react to all this, and objectively, that’s terrifying, but I can’t even feel that much, because I just don’t _know_ , except that I’m probably going to cry at some point. So I’m just –’ he took a deep breath, leaning back in the seat, ‘– I’m just going to accept it, and move on, and try to think about something else. Is that all right?’

By way of answer, Dean picked up his hand and kissed the knuckles. ‘Rings,’ he said. ‘So, two questions: one, do we really need two each, and two, do they have to match? Because this is, uh. This is kind of new territory for me.’

‘Me, too,’ said Cas, and as they drove and talked, he didn’t think it was possible to be more in love with someone than he was with Dean Winchester.

They switched over at the midway point, Cas sliding comfortably behind the wheel. He lost himself in the driving, in the friendly purr of the car, and when Dean plugged in the iPod and put on some classic rock, Cas sang along and drummed the beat on the steering wheel as though he’d been doing it his whole life. But the closer they came to Nevada, the harder it was to distract himself, and the more his anxieties grew. When they finally crossed the state line, he hauled the car onto the hard shoulder at the first opportunity and pulled up, shaking.

Instantly, Dean unclipped their belts and slid across the seat, pulling Cas into his arms.

‘Hey, baby. It’s all right. I’ve got you.’

Cas hugged back, breathing in the scent of him. 'I read Clarity's journal,' he blurted. 'Before we left, I read it.' And then he'd shoved it to the back of his mind, locked away with everything else he tried not to think about, because he'd needed some good in his life, needed to be there for Dean, and for once, he'd had the luxury of time; of knowing that, when he finally had to face it all, his lover would be there to help him.

And so he was.

'I figured you did,' said Dean. He stroked his fingers through Cas's hair and kissed the corner of his mouth. 'Do you wanna talk about it?'

'No. Yes. Maybe. I don't know.' He rested his head on Dean's shoulder. 'She remembered me, Dean. She was so little when I left, but she remembered me. She remembered I said goodbye, and that I loved her, and that I was sorry.' He took a shaky breath. 'But my mother told her I wasn't real, that she didn't have a brother. I was imaginary.'

Dean's arms tightened around him, those strong, clever hands stroking gentle circles against his back. 'Oh, Cas.'

'But the thing is –' he gulped, the words suddenly spilling out of him, '– Brother Tiberius, Bruckner, he was controlling her, you know? And he'd hated me, he always said he'd hurt them if I left, if they showed any sign of being different, so there's a chance, it's possible she was just trying to protect her, keep them all safe, to make sure they couldn't grow up like me. Or maybe she really did hate me, too, I don't know; I mean, she rebelled in the end, she helped the FBI, she got them out – she changed, Dean, she had to have changed at some point, but I don't know how much, or why. But Clarity never believed her. She thought our mother was lying, and it gave her something solid, something to hold on to, even when she had to pretend otherwise. And then she found my book, and she _knew_.'

He was crying, quiet tears slipping down his cheeks, until Dean tenderly kissed them away, his hands cupping Cas's face. 'You saved her,' he said, simply, and the words hit Cas like a thunderbolt.

'I what?'

'You saved her,' Dean said again. 'She asked questions because of you, Cas. I saw what she wrote, that poem of hers. You gave her strength. You gave her courage. You might not have been there, but you left her a piece of yourself all the same, and it saved her. Just like you saved me.'

Cas shook his head. 'No, no. I abandoned them,' he said, but his voice quavered, like maybe, impossibly, it wasn't that simple. 'I left them there.'

'No, you didn't.' Dean stroked his sides. 'Think about it, Cas. Even if you'd been able to take them with you, your sisters were babies when you left, and you were a minor. You couldn't have looked after them; you had to go alone. And your mom loved them, right?'

'Yeah,' he whispered. 'Yeah, she did. Does.'

'Well, then. You left them with someone who loves them, and I know she fucked up with you, she betrayed you in the worst way, but she kept them safe, just like you said, and in the end, she got them out. And you know what I think?'

'What?'

'I think you saved her, too.'

A sob caught in his throat. 'Dean, no, you can't – I didn't –'

'No. You listen to me.' He put a finger under Cas's chin, tilting it up, until they were staring into each other, those beautiful green eyes bright as gems. 'Take it from someone who knows,' Dean said, softly. 'People don't change for nothing. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink, isn't that what they say? And you told me your mother liked things easy, simple – always took the path of least resistance. But helping the FBI take down the people controlling you, then making a break for it, alone, when your new friends fuck up and leave you hanging? Standing up to the people who let you get hurt while you're still in hospital? That's not easy or simple, Cas. That's battle-courage. I don't know when, but your mother did change, and I know, I _guarantee_ , that you helped her do it. Which isn't me defending her, because what happened to you, what she _let_ happen to you – god, believe me, if anyone knows about shitty parenting, it's me, OK? But you've spent ten years thinking you betrayed your family by leaving, and the way I see it, I think it's the opposite. They got themselves out, but you're the one who showed them the way, because that's what you do. You –' he smiled, shook his head, blushing to the tips of his ears, and said, 'You make broken people whole. Like me.'

Cas opened his mouth. Closed it again. His heart was beating so hard, it felt like his veins were twitching, and Dean just sat there looking faintly embarrassed, as though he hadn't just completely upended one of Cas's deepest insecurities. Wonderingly, he raised a hand and traced his fingertips over Dean's face, unable to quite believe the man before him was real, and his, and here.

'There's just one problem with that theory, love.'

'Yeah? What's that.'

He smiled. 'You were never broken.'

And before he could protest, Cas slid his hands along Dean's neck and drew him in for a kiss, slow and sweet, savouring the taste of him, the flick of his tongue. He grabbed Dean's hip, thumb stroking the warm, bare skin where his shirt had ridden up, gasping a little as Dean dug his fingers through his hair. Cas nipped gently at his bottom lip, then kissed across his cheek to the junction of jaw and throat, sucking the sensitive skin until Dean moaned, one hand slipping down to curl possessively around Cas's neck. When he spoke, his voice was ragged and breathy.

'We should, uh. We should probably –' he pulled back a little, panting, '– you know, keep going, keep –'

'I agree,' said Cas, grinning as he unzipped Dean's fly. 'We should _definitely_ keep going.'

Dean tipped his head back against the seat, groaning. 'That's not what I – oh, _fuck_ , Cas.'

Cas lay down along the seat, mouthing gently at Dean's cock through the damp fabric of his boxers. 'You want me to stop?'

The answer was instantaneous. 'Don't you _dare_.'

By way of answering, Cas pulled him free and took him in his mouth. He wondered, vaguely, how much of what they were doing was visible to passing motorists, and decided in the same breath that he didn't actually care. He nudged Dean's thighs apart with his palms, swallowing him deep in his throat, coaxing him with his tongue, and when he finally came, Cas revelled in the taste of him.

Dean lay back, visibly trembling as he did himself back up. 'I. Um. Ah.'

Cas kissed his neck and slid back into the driver's seat. 'I'll take that as a compliment.'

'Yes. Compliment.' Dean sat there, dazed, but it wasn't until Cas started the car again that he yelped and said, 'Wait, wait! What the hell are you doing?'

'What?' Cas braked just short of pulling off the shoulder. 'What's wrong?'

Dean gestured at him wildly. 'You – I didn't –'

'Oh!' Cas blushed, as startled as Dean was, because he was hard and aching, and yet he'd stopped without a second thought. 'I, ah. I just –' he bit his lip, not knowing how to explain, '– I wanted to give you something.'

Dean raised an eyebrow. 'And that precludes me from giving back how?'

'It doesn't! But you already gave me something important, and I didn't like to be greedy.'

'You didn't –' Dean sucked in breath, staring at him. 'Jesus _Christ_ , Cas.'

'What?'

'No, you know what? Just shut up.' And suddenly Dean was across the seat and straddling him, kissing him so fiercely, he could barely breathe. Dean rolled his hips, grinding against him, and Cas whined, panting as Dean grabbed both his hands and pinned them back against the seat, one on either side. Cas bucked against him, arousal kicking the breath from his lungs. Dean had taken control before, but not like this, and Cas, who'd never had the slightest interest in being dominated, suddenly found the prospect almost unbearably sexy. It must have shown in his face, because a wicked smile suddenly curved Dean's mouth, his eyes the poison-green of malachite as he leaned in close and licked the skin beneath Cas's ear, eliciting a full-body shudder.

'Just sit there, Cas,' Dean commanded, his voice somewhere between a growl and a whisper, 'and take what you _deserve_.'

And he kissed him again, hot and filthy, his strong grip sliding their fingers together without once letting Cas's hands up from the seatback, slow-grinding against him, as inexorable as the tide; or else the tide was Cas, and Dean was the moon, controlling him with the orbit of his hips, until every ounce of bodily salt – sweat, seed and blood – was baying at his touch.

' _Dean_ ,' Cas gasped, thrusting desperately upwards, held in place by his lover's weight, his hands and thighs. He barely knew what he wanted, except that it was simultaneously both more than and exactly this; he was slick and hard within his boxers, denim-on-denim friction rasping against them both – Dean was hard again, and the solid jut of him made Cas moan in his throat. He flexed his wrists, wanting to grab his lover, pull him close and grind up against him, but Dean had him pinned, and that shouldn't have aroused him – other partners had tried it, and it had only ever been irksome – but holy _fuck_ , did he suddenly want to explore this, or have it explored for him, and all at once, he was wrecked, unable to rip his gaze from Dean's. His climax hit him like a voltage current: he convulsed, shuddering through the aftershocks, and only when Dean released his hands did he realise he'd been straining against him, his shoulders burning with tension. Biting back a sob, Cas slumped forwards and buried his face in Dean's chest, arms coming up to wrap around him.

'Jesus, Cas,' Dean said again, but softly this time. He ran his shaking hands through Cas's hair, thumbs smoothing over his temples, and kissed the crown of his head. 'Was that all right? Are _you_ all right?'

Cas laughed, the sound muffled by Dean's shirt. Lifting his head, he smiled up at his lover. 'That was... very good,' he said, meaning _extraordinary_ and _what did you just do to me_ and _when will you do it again_ , and Dean seemed not only to have heard the inference, but to have shared in the intensity of it, because he gulped and said hoarsely, 'For me, too.'

It took Cas a moment to catch his full meaning, and when he did, his mouth hung open a little.

'You didn't.'

'I, uh. Yeah. I did. Again.'

'But you just –'

'I know.'

'How is that even –?'

Dean cupped his cheeks and drew him up for a kiss. 'It's you, Cas,' he said, simply. 'Only explanation.' He trailed a hand down the side of Cas's face, and where he touched, a bright blush followed, because just at that moment, it was more than Cas could conceive of, that he could have that sort of effect on _anyone_ , let alone Dean Winchester, who made him feel like no one else ever had or could – or would, now, because Castiel was, in the popular parlance, putting a goddamn _ring_ on that, and as fast as was humanly possible.

He reached up, smoothing his hands up Dean's chest to his shoulders, fingers gliding along his collarbone, throat, jaw, until his thumbs were stroking at the corners of his eyes, his hands cradling his lover's head. 'I love you,' he whispered, and drew Dean down, until their foreheads were pressed together. 'God, I love you so much.'

'I love you too, Cas.' Dean braced his palms on his shoulders, his breathing still ragged. 'I think maybe I always have.'

They kissed again, and this time, it was steady, gentle, and when they finally broke apart, Dean slid himself off Cas's lap and said, with just a small amount of chagrin, 'We should probably, uh. Tidy ourselves up.'

Cas laughed. 'Definitely.'

Five minutes and two changing sessions later, they were driving again, this time with Dean behind the wheel, soft rock playing on the radio as the wind whipped through the window. Cas was smiling, still nervous about what lay ahead, but knowing Dean was there to help him cope.

Something buzzed in the footwell.

'What's that?' Dean asked, glancing across.

Cas bent down, rummaging, and retrieved Dean's phone, which had evidently slipped free at some point. He swiped the screen, and grinned when he saw who was calling.

'It's Anna,' he said, already winding up his window. 'Want me to put her on speaker?'

'Oh, yeah. Just hang on a sec, would you?' Dean turned down the radio. 'OK, go.'

Cas picked up. 'Hey there, Anna! How's tricks? We can both hear you.'

A groan from the other end. 'Oh, huzzah! They're _alive_!' Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. 'Think back a few days, you two. Think back, like, _two weeks_. What was the last thing I said to you, as you were driving away?'

Dean blinked. 'Something about Gabe?'

'No, _not_ something about Gabe!'

'I dunno, Anna. I'm pretty sure you mentioned him.'

'Oh, for the love of – _yes_ , I mentioned him, but _no_ , that's not what I'm talking about. I asked you dorks to _call me when you got there,_ remember? You know, so I wouldn't worry, on account of how the last time we had radio silence, you both ended up in the hospital?'

Dean and Cas exchanged guilty looks. 'Oh.'

'Yes,  _oh_ !' Anna fumed. 'So here's me, minding your respective places of business and trying  _not_ to be an over-concerned, intrusive, stalkerish busybody by calling you first and interrupting your big adventure, and all the while I'm telling myself, they're OK! There's no need to worry, they're probably just _too busy_ having a  _fabulous time_ to remember to  _check in_ with me – ' 

'Anna –'

'– and  _not_ ,' she went on, furious, '– lying dead in a ditch somewhere! I mean, what the actual hell, you guys? Most people go on vacation, they at least leave an internet trail. Would it have killed you to log into, I don't know, fucking Instagram or some shit, just so I knew for definite you were being absent-minded asshats and  _not_ getting kidnapped by hillbillies?'

Cas blinked. 'Are there even hillbillies in Nevada?'

' _That is not the point, Castiel Novak!_ ' 

'Granted,' he said, and as he looked at Dean, he realised they were both suppressing laughter. 'Anna, we're sorry –'

'Sorry! Oh, that's  _really helpful_ , guys. That's really great.'

'We just got kind of distracted,' Dean said, grinning. 'And, uh. Engaged.'

Absolute silence.

'Speaking of which,' said Cas, deliberately casual, 'you reckon you could organise my stag night? Dean's little brother's doing his.'

'Oh, you rat bastards,' Anna breathed. And then, yelling, ' _Congratulations!_ '

Cas laughed. 'Is that a yes?'

'To hosting your stag? Oh,  _fuck yes_ . I am going to get you  _so drunk_ , Cas, you don't even understand. I am officially, as of right this second, hiring Gabe as the bartender.'

'Gabe?' Cas raised an eyebrow. 'Is that meant to intimidate me?'

Anna cackled. 'It should do. Two nights ago, he got bored and invented the absinthe daiquiri. I'm still recovering. Your livers are  _doomed_ .'

Dean drummed his hands on the wheel, visibly delighted. 'Oh, I am liking this plan!'

They talked for the next ten minutes, most of which involved Anna trying to grill them about who'd proposed to whom and how, and Dean hedging awkwardly about spontaneity and romance while Anna make sceptical noises, until Cas, who wasn't the least bit ashamed of any of it, said, 'Oh, for the love of god, we had epic sex in the car and it just sort of happened. Does that answer your question?'

Dean physically choked, the sound almost lost beneath Anna's hysterical laughter. 'Dude! Seriously? Are you gonna tell  _everyone_ that?'

'Everyone?  _What_ everyone? We don't know enough people to even qualify as an  _everyone_ , Dean.' 

'Yeah, and we never will, if you tell every person who asks for an engagement story that –' he actually took his hands off the wheel and made sarcastic air quotes, '–  _we had epic sex in the car and it just sort of happened!_ ' 

'Or, alternatively,' Anna pointed out, still giggling, 'you'll have the best everyone  _ever_ . Use it as a litmus test for friendship. Anyone who freaks out isn't worth knowing; anyone who laughs is in.' 

'We're not doing that,' said Dean, in the same breath that Cas said, 'We're totally doing that.'

They looked at each other, blinked, and burst out laughing.

When, a full minute later, they all finally got themselves under control, Dean said, 'So, Anna. You call for any particular reason, or did you just want to yell at us?'

'Mostly yelling,' she admitted. 'And to see how you were. And, well, I guess to let you know that your surprise is ready, though now I'm going to repackage it as an engagement present.'

'Surprise?' asked Cas. 'What surprise?'

'You guys really do have the memories of goldfish, don't you? I've been working on it with Gabe. He's a design student – a pretty good one, actually – and, well, we've been drawing up plans for the store for you, in case you wanted to upgrade.'

'Which store?' Dean asked. 'His or mine?'

'Just the one, actually. Yours. I mean, yours in the plural, not the singular.'

'What?'

'Well, it's just, you know, since Cas doesn't actually make any money from his place and you're right next door, I just figured you might want to cut your losses, knock the wall through and amalgamate, sort of a books-and-records dealie, maybe get a coffee machine, too. Or not! We've mocked up a few different options, and it's not like you're obliged to use the designs or anything, but I just thought, down the road a bit, you know, if you wanted –'

Dean was positively glowing, and Cas felt a stupid grin spread across his face. 'Anna?'

'Yeah?'

'You're an angel. An actual, literal angel.'

He could just about hear her blushing over the phone. 'Flatterer.'

'Hey, it's not flattery if it's true. Just cold, hard facts.'

'It wasn't a stupid idea, then?'

'Pretty much the opposite of that,' said Dean, his eyes alight with the possibilities.

'Well. Good, then.' And with that, she went back to asking them about their trip, and what (if any) wedding plans they'd made, the normalcy of it so soothing that, for the next twenty minutes, Cas completely forgot where they were headed and why, only coming back to himself when Anna finally said her goodbyes, promising to drink a celebratory cocktail in their honour. Dean laughed at that, a mischevious look on his face.

'And will you be asking  _Gabe_ to make this cocktail, by any chance?'

'Sorry, can't hear you!' Anna yelled. 'You're going through a tunnel!'

And then she hung up, leaving them both in stitches.

'Oh, I love her,' Dean said, wiping his eyes. 'She's good people.'

'She really is.'

'We should do something for her, when we get back. Throw her a party or something.'

'Or pay for her to throw one,' said Cas. 'Something tells me she'd like that.'

'Probably, yeah.' Dean hesitated. 'Cas?'

'Yeah?'

'I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I kinda feel like it needs to be said, so I'm just gonna come out and say it. Um.' He stayed silent for a good three seconds, then finally said, 'You don't have to pay for everything. For me, that is. Or anyone else. I mean, I know you have money, but I wouldn't – I don't want you to ever feel like I'm taking you for granted, OK? If we fix up the stores, I want to pay my share, and I want the profits to mean something, and I'm not trying to be stupid about this, you know, or ungrateful, or anything like that, I just... I've never really had a safety net before, and if I ever start treating you like a bank, or –'

'Dean, I'm not trying to buy you.' He bit his lip, wincing. 'That came out wrong. I mean, I do have money, but I was poor for long enough to know that you can't just say to someone,  _oh, being rich doesn't matter,_ because it does, it makes a difference. Believe me, I understand that. I only let the bookstore run at a loss because... well, because I was running at a loss, too, in every way that mattered. But now I'm not.' He smiled tentatively, reaching over to brush Dean's hand, and was almost immeasurably relieved when his lover returned both gestures. 'I don't want to live stupidly, but I don't want to act like I can't help people, either, and that includes you and me as well as our friends. So.' He took a deep breath. 'We fix the stores into store, singular. We do it right, and we make it work, and we live off the profits, but as for the rest, the big stuff, the comforts – please, let me do that much for us, won't you? God, we've both had so much that's hard, and I'm sick of bare walls and my bed-of-nails couch, and I want to build something with you, Dean, I want a place that's ours – that we can  _make_ ours, however we like, whatever we want – and for once, just for once in my life, I don't want to be restrained, because I'm happy, you have no idea how happy you make me, and I want to share that, I want it to be a gift, you know? Because you're a gift to me.'

Dean flushed from collar to crown. 'Cas, baby,' he said, weakly, 'if you're going to say stuff like that, can you please not do it when I can't actually kiss you? Because that's what I want to do right now, except I'd probably kill us both, and I really don't want _that_ , but oh, god – just imagine me kissing you, OK?'

'I'm imagining a whole lot more than that,' said Cas, and was rewarded when Dean groaned.

'Angel-devil,' he breathed. 'You goddamn sex-haired angel-devil, the  _second_ we make the hotel tonight, I'm going to make this up to you.' 

'You'd better,' said Cas.

Grinning, Dean gripped the wheel and drove.

 

 


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND WE'RE DONE! Thank you so much to everyone who's taken the time to read along with this fic - I've been touched by your encouragement and feedback, and grateful that you've put up with the delays between chapters and the unexpectedly extended ending. I couldn't have done it without you, and I just hope it was worth the wait :)

They made it to Horizon, Nevada a little after 8pm. It was a midsize town, just big enough that they'd had a choice of hotels, but small enough that the choice was fairly straightforward. Just like that first night in Indianapolis, they went straight up to their room; unlike in Indianapolis, however, and despite what they'd said in the car, Dean's first act was not to shove Cas up against the door and have his way with him, but to put a hand on the back of his neck and ask, gently, 'How are you feeling?'

Cas let out a shaky breath. 'OK, I guess.'

Dean tipped his head onside, so that he was looking up at Cas, whose beautiful eyes were downcast. 'Hey. This is me, Cas. Just because we were all fired up earlier doesn't mean we have to be now.' He stroked his neck, sneaking a quick glance at the bathroom. 'So, here's what I'm thinking. We order some room service, I give you a massage, and then we take a bath. That sound like a plan to you?'

Cas smiled weakly. 'Like I said. You're a gift.'

Dean kissed the corner of his mouth, smiling as he did so. 'And you're a dork. Come on. Let's have a look at the menu.'

They ordered macaroni and cheese, two slices of chocolate cake and a bottle of red wine, and as Cas set down the phone, Dean shucked off his shoes, came up behind him, and started to peel his shirt off. Cas shivered under his touch, flinching ever so slightly as Dean's fingers grazed his back, and as small a motion as it was, to Dean, it stood out like a beacon. He dropped the shirt and settled his hands on Cas's hips, thumbs stroking the sharp bones, and lightly kissed the base of his neck, just like he'd done their first night together, a million years ago.

'We can skip the massage,' he murmured. 'Not a problem.'

Cas turned in his arms, forehead resting on Dean's shoulder. 'Maybe later, though?' he asked, hands tugging Dean's shirt up. Obedient, Dean let him pull it off, then kissed his cheek.

'Sure, Cas. Whatever you want.'

They undressed slowly, Dean pressing soft, warm kisses over Cas's body, but more to offer him comfort than anything else, and though they both twitched in arousal, there was no pressure to act on it, no need to do anything other than touch. Twining their fingers together, Dean put on some music and lead Cas through to the bathroom, which boasted a surprisingly deep tub. As he started running the water, he discovered a number of small bottles on the nearby ledge, which Dean, more accustomed to motels that charged extra for the basics than hotels that provided them free, examined curiously.

'Oh, hey! Bubblebath!' He grinned hopefully at Cas. 'Can we?'

'We'd be fools not to,' said Cas, smiling, and soon the tub was filling with foam.

They were about to climb in when room service knocked on the door. The timing was perfect: Dean wrapped a towel around his waist, collected the food – which, conveniently, came on a wheeled trolley – and brought it straight into the bathroom. Cas blinked at him, the corner of his mouth quirking up. 'We're eating in here?'

'Damn straight we are.' And then, off his look, 'What, you've never had dinner in the bath before?'

'Not as such,' said Cas, wryly. 'Why, have you?'

Dean considered. 'Well, maybe not dinner, but it's the same principle. It'll be fun!'

He hopped in, hissing slightly at the warmth, and turned off the taps. 'Come on in, Cas. There's plenty of room.'

He spread his knees wide, bracing his hands on the side of the tub as Cas awkwardly lowered himself in. Even with them doubled up, the bath was long enough that they could still stretch out a little, and as Cas leaned back against Dean's chest, the bubbles and water level both now perilously close to overflowing, Dean kissed his ear and pulled him close.

'See?' he murmured. 'Relaxing.'

'Very,' Cas admitted. 'But, um. Eating like this might be problematic.'

Dean shrugged. 'We'll figure it out.'

And, weirdly, they did, though not without some splashing and a considerable amount of laughter. The food proved well worth the effort, though, and by the time they'd made it through the chocolate cake, half the wine had gone, too. Dean felt boneless, blissful. He curled his arms more tightly around Cas, the fingers of one hand stroking wetly through his hair, and for the longest time, they just sat like that, suspended in an eloquent silence broken only by the soft burr of background music. He didn't remember closing his eyes, and he hadn't even thought he was that tired, but at some point, he must have fallen asleep, because suddenly Cas was half turned around in his arms, eyes smiling as he stroked Dean's cheek and murmured, 'Wake up, love. The water's getting cold.'

'Is it?' Dean asked muzzily. 'Oh.'

Cas got out first and helped Dean after, enveloping him in an enormous white towel and patting them both dry. Dean was heat-dizzy, struggling to keep his eyes open. Reflexively, he looped his arms around Cas's neck and rested his head on his shoulder, and all at once, Cas was lifting him up, carrying him over to the bed, just like he'd carried him from hospital – he flicked the lights off on the way, plunging them into a darkness broken only by the soft, blue glow of the bedside clock – and tucking them under the covers, still slightly damp and smelling of red wine and chocolate.

Dean sighed contentedly, pillowing his head on Cas's chest. 'You OK, baby?' he murmured.

Cool lips brushed his temple. 'I'm fine, love. You go to sleep.'

'Not tired,' Dean mumbled, yawning.

Cas chuckled. 'Sure you're not.'

'Wide awake. Swear.'

'If you say so.'

'Well, I do. So there.'

He was asleep in moments.

 

*

 

Cas was braced for nightmares, but his dreams that night were all of Dean, a series of silly-sweet vignettes that wound through his heart like music. When he woke, it was to the soft glow of daylight slipping between the curtains of their room, and as he blinked, he realised Dean was still in his arms, one of which was fiery with pins and needles from having been slept on all night. A feeling utter peace suffused him; he looked down at Dean, studying the lines of his face, the faint dusting of freckles over his cheeks, and thought,  _I'm going to marry you._

As Cas tried to pull his pinned arm free, Dean stirred, rolling more fully onto him. He made his sleepy noise, which was somewhere between a moan and a chirrup, and mumbled, 'Five more minutes.' 

Smiling, Cas leaned down and kissed his nose. 'Wake up, love.'

Dean hooked a knee between Cas's thighs, nuzzling blindly at his collarbone. 'Can't make me,' he said, but the faintest hitch in his voice suggested otherwise. With the grave precision of one conducting a vital scientific experiment, Cas licked the index finger of his free hand and drew it along the curve of Dean's back. His lover gasped and shuddered, green eyes blinking open like traffic lights as he stared hungrily up at Cas.

'Oh, now, baby,' he whispered, stretching himself onto Cas's body, until they were lying flush, 'that's just not fair.' And he pressed their lips together, peppering him with quick, semi-chaste kisses that steadily turned deepened, his hands coming up to tangle in his hair, while Cas, in turn, let his own slide down to grip Dean's ass, gently grinding them together as Dean arched his back and rolled his hips.

They were both dreamlazy, their arousal intensifying so slowly, it was impossible to tell the exact point at which their languid touching turned urgent, except to realise, with breathtaking desire, that it had somehow already happened. Cas fumbled on the bedside table, grabbing for the lube that wasn't there, because they hadn't unpacked last night, and it was still in his bag. He groaned in frustration, and as Dean followed the flick of his gaze, he realised the problem. Grinning, he levered himself up, said, 'Be right back,' and hopped off the bed, leaving Cas to lie there, shivering in the sudden cool of his absence, until Dean clambered back between his knees, his fingers already slick.

'Now,' he murmured, slipping a hand between Cas's legs, 'where were we?'

' _Ah_ – there!' Cas panted, opening at Dean's touch. 'Oh, god. Just like that.'

Dean's smile was raggedy-wicked, his fingers moving sinfully. ' _Just_ like that?' he teased. 'Or is there something else you'd like?' 

Cas tipped his head back, growling with pleasure. ' _Yes_ .'

'Tell me, then. Tell me what you want.'

He groaned, low and needy. 'Fuck me.'

'Uh uh, Cas. What's the magic word?'

'Please,' he begged, and just like yesterday, it ignited something in him he hadn't known could burn. ' _Please_ , Dean. Fuck me.'

His lover inhaled sharply, eyes wide with lust, and proceeded to do just that. Cas wrapped his legs around him, pulling Dean down and sucking on his bottom lip, moaning against his mouth as they rutted. A coil of pleasure built in his core, and as Dean moved within and above him, Cas fell out of time, completely lost in the moment. Then Dean's lips closed over the shell of his ear, tongue licking at the lobe, and he snapped back into himself, crying out as he came, untouched, a hot spurt of white that slicked between them as Dean shuddered over a different brink. Panting, Dean collapsed against him, and as Cas wrapped his arms around him, he surprised them both by rolling Dean onto his back and kissing him soundly.

'Good morning to you, too,' Dean said, more than a little dazed. 'Shower?'

'Shower,' Cas agreed, grinning.

A half hour later – clean, dressed and much more awake – they headed out to the car. They'd already agreed that Dean would drive to the Fairchild house, which was fifteen-odd minutes away. Cas buckled his seatbelt, probing himself for any of the nervousness he'd felt the night before, but found none: just an unfamiliar sense of tranquillity.

'All right,' said Dean, as they pulled away from the curb, 'I know I said it yesterday, but I'll say it again, just in case: you need an out at any point, I'm there, OK?'

'I know,' said Cas. 'Stoplight system? Check. Protective fiancé? Check. All-over sense of emotional balance and well-being? Check.'

'Ready as you'll ever be, huh?'

'Something like that.' He took a deep breath and looked out the window, smiling as the world blurred past. 'Let's do this.'

The house, when they arrived, was square and blue, set at the far end of a broad, treeless street. The thin, sharp sunlight gilded the air, and as they stepped out of the car, Cas made one final decision.

'I'm not lying about us,' he said, putting an arm around Dean's waist and pulling him in for a kiss. 'No cover stories, no lies of omission. For better or worse, I want them to know the truth.'

'For better or worse,' Dean echoed, smiling. 'Now, you  _know_ I like the sound of that.'

'Flirt,' Cas said, and kissed him again.

His heart sped up as they approached the door, but even so, he didn't hesitate; just knocked, and waited, and squeezed Dean's hand.

It swung open, revealing the familiar figure of Agent Rhys. She smiled at the pair of them, and Cas was surprised by how grateful he felt, that she was the one entrusted with his family's care.

'Morning, boys,' she said. 'We've been expecting you. Come on in.'

She lead them down a narrow hallway, out to a bright, cheerful breakfast room. And then Cas stopped, the tightening of his throat so visceral that, for several seconds, he physically couldn't breathe; because there was his mother, her dark hair streaked with silver, pain lines marking her eyes and mouth, and so much thinner than he remembered – thin and brown and weathered, new freckles darkening her arms. She had been seated, but seeing him, she stood, lips trembling, tears in her eyes.

'Casti,' she whispered. 'My Castiel. My boy.' Her voice cracked, and she stepped out from behind the table, visibly shaking. 'Oh, my beautiful boy. I'm so sorry, Casti. I'm so, so sorry for everything.' She held out her arms, and just like that, Cas was ten years old again; he dropped Dean's hand and rushed to her, pulling her into a hug, and then they were both sobbing, falling to their knees and clutching each other, and he knew, he  _knew_ it couldn't be this simple – there would be anger, later, and grief, and a thousand other things – but just at that moment, he didn't care. His mother was alive, and free, and he hadn't destroyed her, and nor had he destroyed himself, and after a decade of unrelenting guilt, he let himself feel its absence. 

'Oh!' She pulled away from him, touching a hand to her lips. Cas helped them both to stand, a guiding touch under her elbow. 'Oh, just look at you!' And then her eyes darted back to Dean, widening slightly. 'And this is your – is your –' She couldn't seem to find the word, and Cas's stomach twisted.

'My fiancé,' he said, softly. 'Mom, this is Dean. Dean, this is Julia Fairchild.'

'Hello,' said Dean, awkwardly ducking his head. 'It's, uh. It's nice to meet you.'

His mother looked between them again. 'Fiancé?' she echoed, head tilted slightly, as though the question were a key that had to be turned in the lock just so.

'Fiancé,' Cas repeated, steeling himself. 'As of this week.'

'Oh!' she said again, and this time, both hands flew to her mouth. ' _Oh!_ Like in Claire's book!'

'Like Claire's –' He broke off, something sharp lodging in his chest, and for the first time, he took in the room's other occupants: two teenage girls, thin-faced and dark-haired, and a small, serious, tousle-haired boy, who was currently hiding behind the smaller girl's legs. He swallowed, rooted to the spot as the taller girl stepped quietly forwards, her blue eyes every bit as bright as his own. She had a stubborn chin, a small, sharp nose and iron in her spine, and as she closed the distance between them, she stretched out a hand, until her fingertips grazed the skin of Cas's cheek.

'You're real,' she said. Her voice was matter-of-fact, but the smile that skittered across her face was victory and raw, fierce joy. 'I  _knew_ you were real.'

'I'm real, Clarity,' Cas said, his eyes full of tears. 'I'm real, and I'm here.'

'It's Claire, now,' she said, and flung her arms around his neck, a quick, tight hug that almost undid him. She was all ribs and sharp edges, but when she stepped back, he saw the strength in her, the determination. Claire turned to their sister, urging her forwards when she hesitated, and with them came the boy, still clinging to her skirts. 'And this is Evie –' the younger girl smiled shyly, '– and Balthazar. We're  _trying_ to call him Bez,' she added, evidently piqued by this display of fraternal reticence, 'but he won't answer to it.  _Yet_ .' 

'Hi,' said Cas, stupidly, too overwhelmed for anything more coherent. 'This is Dean.'

'His Severin,' Julia supplied, coming to stand beside her girls, but Clarity – Claire – shook her head.

'His  _fiancé_ , mom,' she corrected, in the long-suffering tones of teenagers everywhere. 'Severin dies in the book, remember? They both do.'

'Oh. Of course.' And with that, Julia shooed them all back to their seats at the table, turning back to Cas. 'Won't you join us?' she asked, and only then did Cas realise there were still three empty seats – one for him, one for Dean, and one for Agent Rhys. 'We have coffee, I think. And fruit.'

'We have pretty much everything,' Rhys said, cocking a thumb at the kitchen. 'But there's no need to rush.'

Cas looked at Dean, his heart so full, his chest could barely contain it.  _Fools rush in_ , he thought, and despite everything, he laughed. Reaching over, he took Dean's hand, and together they came and took their seats at the table.

'Everything sounds great,' said Castiel, smiling. 'We'll take two.'

 

 


End file.
